Prude, Pasty and British
by btch sprinkles
Summary: Set directly after The Reichenback Fall spoilers- be warned As the boys set out to escape London and figure out how to bring down the remaining organization of Jim Moriarty, they're also forced to deal with the idea that their future might lie forever with each other, leaving room for no one else. Slash, John/Sherlock small amount of Irene/Sherlock
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So this is my first ever Sherlock story, and I don't think it's too far off canon for a John/Sherlock relationship. I plan to do my best to keep to the characterizations, and in saying that, I don't want the expectation that this story is heavily slash (i.e. graphic or extremely sexual in nature). It's more an exploratory version of how John and Sherlock realize what they mean to each other, etc. I don't write a lot of fanfic, I'm working on my second novel, so fanfic sort of fills in the breaks I take from writing in my own world. Plan for this particular story to have somewhere around four or five chapters, longer than some, but most definitely not a novel in its own right.

Reviews are always appreciated, as well as constructive criticism. I crave that sort of thing, I like to know where I'm at with a story. So without further ado, here are our favorite boys on their latest adventures!

**Warnings: post The Reichenbach Fall- full of spoilers, so beware.**

It was Molly who eventually gave it all away, Molly who always meant well, but was a terrible liar. She showed up at 221B Baker Street a few days before John had a charity scheduled to take away all of Sherlock's things.

You see, John wasn't ready, in any capacity, to part with his things. He wasn't ready, despite countless therapy sessions, visits to the cemetery, photos of the autopsy and frankly, having watched him jump, to believe that Sherlock Holmes was dead. John Watson was a man of very little faith in things beyond science and the things he could touch, but he still, somehow, believed that Sherlock Holmes was capable of that last miracle.

He was sitting down to tea when he heard the buzz. He was alone in the Bakers Street flat, his sweet little landlady was actually visiting her sister for a spell because the death of her most favorite tenant had taken a much harder toll on her than many believed it would. Though John knew Sherlock would be rolling in his grave, he sent her off. For her health, of course.

It didn't hurt that John wanted, no needed, some time alone. She had helped pack Sherlocks things neatly in boxes. No one had dared touch his coat, though, nor did they lay a finger on his scarves, or those sometimes painfully bright colored shirts he kept in neat rows on a rack near the window in his room.

John could still smell him around the flat, the bitter smell of his soaps, the coffee, because frankly John only took tea unless it was a dire emergency. He could smell his odd science experiments around the kitchen, and occasionally when he went in the cupboard for tea, he'd find a stray beaker or a bottle of clear, unmarked liquid that was most definitely hazardous.

He cried, in private, for the first week. It was when he cried in front of Gregory Lestrade that he realized he needed to be alone. He sent Mrs. Hudson off on holiday under the guise that she needed to mourn the loss of her, for all intents and purposes, caretaker. Because he was, wasn't he? Sherlock took care of everyone, including John. Sherlock never bothered with bank statements, rent, utilities, or groceries. He never bothered with cab fare or paying the dinner bill, but he kept everyone alive, and safe, and he kept John whole.

Now he was gone and John was so very, very alone. So very alone and so very, achingly, desperately sad. John, as before, was sitting down for tea, staring at the window where Sherlock's violin sat on the edge.

When the buzz came, John immediately looked down at his state of dress and blushed. He sat on the chair, his dressing gown dirty, to put it lightly, his slippers worn, his hair unwashed and all over the place. He realized he had no idea when the last time he had brushed his teeth was, or had a proper meal to be honest.

What did it matter though, John thought as he ambled down the stairs, trying not to picture Sherlock bounding up and down, taking strides of two and three stairs at a time. He tried not to picture Sherlock's excited leap over the banister when they had a particularly good case, when Sherlock knew he wouldn't be "bored" by the events of the day.

John was surprised, to say the least, to see Molly standing at his doorstep. It was raining, and her hair had fallen flat and wet against her forehead. She looked well though, which surprised John. Molly had always been desperately in love with Sherlock, to the point of obsession and willingness to Sherlock's particularly cruel brand of humiliation when he picked her apart far too often.

John assumed Molly would be a mess, at least as poor as him if not worse, so to see her there looking just so in her skirt and trendy wellies covering her grey tights and her tight blouse tucked under a rain jacket.

She smiled a little at John, looking sad and curious at the state of him. "All right, John?"

"Never better," he said bitterly. "How are you doing?"

"I um... well fine, you know, considering," she said in her waify, quiet voice. "Do you mind if I come in? I'm afraid I forgot my umbrella, and I was in a hurry to see you."

Perplexed but curious, John stepped aside and let the girl in. He led the way up the stairs and made a sort of lame attempt of apology at the state of the place. "Haven't really got round to tidying up since... you know..." his voice broke and he stopped. No, no he still wasn't ready to say it out loud.

"Er, right," Molly said. She had her hands in her pockets and she didn't complain about the smell, though it wasn't very pleasant.

John showed her to a seat and folded his arms as he sat back in his chair. "What can I do for you, Molly? If you're here to talk about Sherlock, I confess I'm just not ready."

"No, it's not that... er... I mean, well sort of, but not really," she stammered. She reached into her pocket and pulled out an envelope, but didn't hand it over. John immediately noted that it was blank, sealed with moisture because of the wrinkled edges, and a bit bent from her pocket.

If Sherlock were here, he'd already know the contents of that envelope, John thought to himself as he watched her fiddle with it in her hands. "So why are you here?" John pressed. "I suppose if you'd like to rifle though his things and see if there's any keepsakes, you're welcome to."

"Oh no, he'd kill me," Molly said and then immediately stammered, "I mean... you know... if he were still here."

John frowned. Molly was a terrible liar, but what could she be lying about? Sherlock was dead. John had seen it with his own eyes, touched his dead body as it lay on the pavement. John shook his head and cleared his throat. "Well he's dead now, so you don't have to fear his reprimand anymore."

"Right, yes," Molly said. "Well you see, I came here to give you this letter. It's from Sherlock, actually, to you. He um he says... I mean said, he said, before he died, that if anything were to happen to him, you should have this letter." She put it on the table and pushed it across to John.

John stared at it but didn't pick it up. His throat constricted, his hands trembling against his sides as he hugged himself even closer. "He gave this to you? When?"

Molly flushed and bowed her head. "Um at the hospital. The night before he uh... he jumped. He came to see me, to um... well I guess to give me this."

John's frown deepened. He could tell she was hiding something, but he wasn't sure exactly what she was hiding and why. He was feeling overwhelmed and very alone right then. He hesitated and then slowly reached out to take the envelope from the table. As he did, he noticed something odd in the corner of his eye. Near one of Sherlock's many bookcases was a vent, and for a brief moment, John swore he saw a light flash behind it.

Shaking his head, he picked up the envelope, tore it open and unfolded the small card inside. It was white, blank, and scrawled across it read, IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH, WHICH SEEMS LIKELY NOW MORE THAN EVER, I WOULD LIKE TO TELL YOU JOHN, THAT YOU HAVE BEEN MY ONLY TRUE FRIEND MY ENTIRE LIFE, AND I WILL GO TO MY DEATH TREASURING THAT. ALSO, IN MEMORY OF ME, PLEASE KEEP ALL OF MY THINGS EXACTLY AS THEY ARE, AND DO YOURSELF A FAVOR AND STAY AT BAKER STREET. MRS. HUDSON WILL NEED YOU WHEN I AM GONE.

SH

John stared at the note and then back up at Molly. "You said he gave this to you the night before he died?"

She nodded. "Yes. He came to me and said... he said he needed help with something. Then he said that should he ever, you know, not make it, to give you this letter."

John nodded. "Thank you. Thank you for bringing it to me, Molly. I hate to be so rude but I'd like to be alone now."

"Right, yes," she said and got up quickly, nearly tripping over the leg of the table. "I'll be on my way then, John. Good to see you."

John saw her out and then immediately went back upstairs. The rain suddenly grew heavier, pounding on the roof, echoing through the nearly empty flat. John put the note back on the table and went over to the vent he had seen the light.

There was nothing now, just darkness behind it, but John wasn't satisfied. He grabbed the edge of the bookshelf and tried to pull it, but oddly, it didn't budge. With a frown, John went with his gut instinct and started touching every book, shifting them each to one side. They all moved, until he came to one.

The book was Treasure Island. It was an old copy, worn and frayed on the edges, the spine nearly torn down the middle. John flashed to a conversation he'd had with Mycroft once. "You know what Sherlock wanted to be when he was little? He wanted to be a pirate."

John smiled, not because of the memory, but because he suddenly got it. He got it, he had figured it out, and he was about to unleash a wave of rage and anger. He tugged on the book and the shelf gave a huge groan, shifting to the side.

Beyond was a room, empty save for a camp bed, a lamp, a small window, and... Sherlock Holmes. Years later, John wouldn't really know how he had managed to remain calm enough to walk into the room, approach his should-be-dead friend and say, "Feeling better, are we?"

Sherlock, of course, didn't get a second to reply before John hit him right in the jaw, knocking him to the ground. He was on him in an instant, grabbing the scarf with two hands and tightening it around his friend's neck as he straddled his middle.

"You son of a bitch! You dirty, filthy, rotten bastard! How could you do this to me? How? How could you let me think you were dead, for even a moment! How could you? Do you realize what I've been through, you bloody tosser?"

Sherlock, who had gone from a normal pasty white to bright red, finally managed to shove John off and stand up. He pulled the scarf off, and with deft skill, managed to dodge John's second strike. Sherlock's lip was bleeding, and he darted his tongue out to catch a bit before it made a mess.

"Calm yourself, John," he said sharply.

"Calm myself? Calm myself? I mourned you, you bastard. I cried. I cried five times today! I sobbed like a child when I found a stray sock you had left on the bathroom floor! How can you tell me to calm myself?" His voice was high, hysterical and near tears.

Sherlock, for his part, looked ashamed and somewhat relieved. "If you'd let me explain without trying to actually kill me, I'd be happy to offer you the story of what happened and why I did what I did."

John was shaking, muttering curses under his breath. He paced the floor in front of Sherlock a few times, and then, before either man spoke, he lunged at Sherlock again, only this time pulling him into a fierce, impossibly tight embrace.

"You... you asshole," John sobbed into Sherlock's shoulder. "I hate you, so much."

Sherlock awkwardly returned the hug, patting John until John let go and wiped his face, clearing his throat loudly. "I am sorry, John, truly, but it was an absolute necessity that you believe I was dead for at least this long. I was hoping for longer." For his part, Sherlock sounded genuinely apologetic, which was rare for the detective.

"Why, Sherlock? Why? Why put me through this? And Mrs. Hudson? The woman is nearly beside herself with grief. What about your brother, eh? Does he know what you've done? What stupid, thoughtless, idiotic thing you've gone and done this time?" John shook his head angrily and started to pace again. "The whole world read your story, Sherlock. The fraud who couldn't take it anymore leaps from a building. You had every opportunity to prove everyone wrong, and yet you chose death? Please explain it to me so I lose my urge to actually kill you where you stand."

Sherlock sat down on the camp bed, his elbows on his knees, the tips of his fingers pressed together under his chin. "You see John, if I hadn't jumped, if I hadn't, you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, you all would have died. I was beginning to see what Moriarty was up to before we found him with that reporter woman, and when she told me his name I immediately understood."

"Richard Brook," John said with a nod. "Reichen Bach."

"You worked it out," Sherlock said, sounding very mildly impressed.

"It wasn't hard, once I had a moment to actually think," John said with a hint of bitterness. He had stopped pacing and leaned against the wall. "So what, exactly, did you work out that I couldn't?"

"The assassins," Sherlock said. "At first I thought they were meant for me, but it didn't take me long to realize what Moriarty wanted. He wanted me dead, and he wanted me dead at my own hand. It was the solution to the final problem, John. He had destroyed me, but the story couldn't end with my humiliation, that would never be enough for him."

"So... so you faked your death, why? They found his body, you know. Gun shot right through the roof of his mouth, dead instantly, and they said it was done before you jumped. So why bother?"

"Because if I hadn't jumped, you would have died. The assassins weren't after anything at all, John, not really. He had paid them to kill everyone I cared about, and I couldn't let that happen," Sherlock said with stoic determination. "I couldn't let dear old Jim know I had worked out his plan. I had to let him think he'd won, that I figured it out only at the end. It was the only way I could take him down with me."

"So why did I need to think you were dead, Sherlock? Why me?" John's voice was still angry, full of grief and betrayal. His hands balled into fists and he hit the wall. "Why let me go through that?"

"Because if I hadn't, they would come after you!" Sherlock all-but shouted.

"The assassins?"

"Don't be a fool, John," Sherlock hissed. "The assassins were men for hire, and once my little stunt had passed they could have been easily paid off. You need to realize something, John. Jim Moriarty did not work alone. He has a network, a network so large I can barely begin to imagine. It extends across the globe, John, and there are others that are smarter, more dangerous and more mad than Jim Moriarty. If you believed I was alive, if you didn't properly mourn for even a second, they would have known I was alive and they would have come after you."

"So why now? Why tell me you're alive now?" John demanded.

"I didn't tell you now," Sherlock said and glared at John. "You found me."

"I'm not the idiot you think I am, Sherlock. If you wanted to stay dead, you would have. You sent over Molly, who is the worst liar. She kept slipping tenses, as you knew she would. You moved across the vent there," John said and pointed up to the other end of the vent in the room. "I saw the light from it. And the note. Sherlock, you didn't write that note before you died. If you were really gone, you wouldn't have cared about any of your things. You're like a child sometimes, you really are." John rubbed is face tiredly and let himself slide to the ground, sitting with one knee up.

Sherlock watched him for a moment and then laughed. "Fine. I let you know, John."

"Why?" John demanded. "If we're still not safe, then why?"

"Because I..." Sherlock stopped and shook his head. "Boring, life is boring. Boring without you, John. When you're dead, life is dull and boring and I miss the hunt. I miss your stupid questions, and your rubbish tea, and you telling me not to smoke. I miss the stupid children with their lost rabbits, and that moron Anderson telling me that I'm rubbish."

"You missed me?" John asked with a small grin.

"Don't. Don't push it John, I'm not giving you more than that."

John chuckled and then stood up. "So what now, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stared at John and then said, "For you, Watson, a shower, a tooth brush and a comb. For me, a decent meal, my coat, and a chartered ship to the new world."

John blushed at the state of himself. "The new world?"

"America, John!" Sherlock said and did a little spin.

"What the hell is in America?" John complained.

Sherlock reached into his coat, pulled out a mobile and tossed it to John. On the screen read a text message, "Want to catch a murdering art thief? Xx"

John looked up at Sherlock and said, "Kiss kiss? How did she... you know what, never mind. Never mind at all. You really expect me to go running around in a foreign country with a couple of people the world believe to be dead?"

Sherlock grinned at John and surprising John, pulled him in for an embrace, kissing John on both cheeks. "Yes I do, John, yes I do."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N- Quick shout-out to my adoring husband, who in his own right is a huge Sherlock fan, and my biggest fan as well. Honestly, how lucky can a girl get, a husband who enjoys fanfiction! Thank you for being my editor, confidant, and always pointing me in the right direction.**_**  
**_

**To the readers- this is what I've got so far, expect an update in a couple of days. I'm not one for drawing stories out. Once they're in my head, they eat away at my brain until I complete them, so waiting for updates shouldn't take long.  
**

**-WMW-  
**

_**"Just one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that for me? Just stop it, stop this."**_

He received this miracle, John Watson. He received it, and Sherlock was alive, and was now hiding out in a secret room in 221B Baker street after a spectacularly failed attempt to leave England incognito.

Sherlock, the self-described smartest man walking the planet, wasn't always clever. He sometimes, more often than he would ever admit, underestimated human perception and their ability to see faces beyond a high scarf, upturned collar and low hat.

John warned him, of course. "You look foolish, and anyone who has seen your face on the telly or in the papers is going to know it's you, Sherlock."

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock said as he turned from side to side in the mirror. "No one looks at faces, they're all so caught up in their facebooks and twitters and blogs," he said sneering the last word at John. "They're hooked in to the internet through their mobiles, not paying a scrap of attention to the faceless passers by. The perfect disguise, John, is hiding in plain sight."

They got about twenty steps from their front door when the first person pointed and gawked. When the second person called out, "Oy!" they turned and Sherlock ran.

He'd been entering and exiting Baker street via a hidden door in the roof in the dead of night while John was free to come and go by the front door. John didn't go immediately home, of course, he knew better than that. He went down to the market and picked up massive amounts of food, because he knew when Sherlock was cooped up and cranky, and after an incident like that, he was bound to be cranky, Sherlock would want to eat.

Well, actually Sherlock would want to smoke, but seeing as John wasn't going to let that happen, he supplemented food instead. He could hear Sherlock banging around angrily inside the secret room, not caring whether or not a noisy neighbor might come and investigate. John had actually gone out and purchased two small grey kittens to he could have something to blame the noise on should anyone come to call.

John prepared a rich, savory steak and asparagus pie, heavy with gravy and potatoes, and while it was baking he tended to the kittens who were busying themselves with a couple of toys on elastic string hanging from the door frame.

Sherlock's incessant pacing and noise making had tapered off so John assumed he had either settled down to sleep off his boredom, or was locked in his mind coming up with another solution to escape the country.

An hour later, John tipped the book, Treasure Island, back, and stepped into the room. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, his eyes closed, his head rocking back and forth slightly as he went over solutions and equations in his mind.

"I'm not going to force you to take a break from whatever it is you're doing," John said as he set the plate of pie down in front of Sherlock, "but I will insist you eat tonight. You've been surviving off of rubbish crisps and candy bars, and if you're not careful you're going to get fat."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "Fat? Me?"

"I've seen the two existing pictures of your brother before his fanatical dieting," John said through a mouthful of the hot dinner.

Sherlock snatched up the plate and walked over to the camp bed to eat it. "Rubbish."

"The food or what I just said?" John demanded.

"The food is passable," Sherlock replied, which was a bit of a stretch since after tasting the first bite he consumed the entire plate in less than a minute. "What you said, John, as usual, is rubbish. Sharing parents does not necessarily mean I have a predisposition for obesity. It merely suggests that Mycroft is the unluckier of the two, in both body and face if I do say so myself, and therefore must take more care than I do to refrain from looking like an overfed hippo."

"And people say you don't love your brother," John mumbled.

"Who says that? Mycroft, probably, and he's partially right," Sherlock said and shoved the plate noisily across the small writing desk. "My brother is insufferable, and though I find myself in a position to care about him from time to time, it's not really worth the effort to love him."

"Is it worth the effort for Sherlock Holmes to love anyone?" John asked.

Sherlock stared at John pointedly but chose not to reply. "Back to our problem..."

"_Your_ problem," John interrupted. "I have no issues with my leaving the country, or the flat for that matter."

"If it's _my_ problem, it's _our_ problem, John, because you wouldn't survive long without me," Sherlock said. "Now, obviously a disguise is useless. Unfortunately my face is far to recognizable this early into my death, and frankly no matter what I try and change, people are going to notice me."

"It's the cheekbones," John muttered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What we need is a second solution. One that doesn't involve disguise, or the use of any sort of public transport for that matter."

"You want us to leave the country without using public transport," John repeated.

"Precisely. Chartering a private boat would probably be our best bet, and obtaining fake passports, for myself at least, and probably for you since we don't want you coming under suspicion."

"Wait, just a moment," John said, holding up a hand and standing up, "why do we need to leave the country? Why am I going under a fake identity? Obviously this isn't just about being bored, Sherlock, and if it's about sex..."

"Sex?" Sherlock asked, very clearly confused with a hint of insulted mixed in for good measure. "What exactly does sex have to do with it."

"That woman," John said with a wave of his hand, "_The_ Woman. She's called you out to be with her."

"_Us_, John, she called _us_ out," Sherlock said, sounding annoyed and bored. "I refuse to dignify the sex question with an answer, because you of all people, despite your small, quiet brain, know perfectly well that sex never factors in to any of my decisions."

John let out a breath and ran his hands through his hair. "So what is this? Yesterday you went on a three hour ramble about the secret society of Jim Moriarty and how you would have to stay dead until you can bring down the entire organization. Now you want to go off gallivanting with a Dominatrix in America? Please point me in the direction of sanity and sense, Sherlock, because I'm just not getting it."

"Oh John, my dear dear John," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "while it doesn't surprise me that you don't understand, it disappoints me. The Woman, Irene Adler, she's involved. She's part of it, John! Don't you see, she is part of it all, somehow, though I haven't figured out every detail of how or why, but I know that she is. She was nearly beheaded by an organization that is working against Moriarty's and while she says she has information to keep her safe, I suspect she has information that can bring them down as well."

John touched his lips with the tips of his pressed fingers. "So going on some mad hunt for an art thief is going to somehow get you access to inside information?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock said. "It's what I have to work with, and there's no gain without a little risk." Sherlock stood up and brushed a few crumbs from John's front with his long fingers. "Besides, John, I'm getting dangerously bored here, and I don't think I'll last much longer."

John let out a small sigh and briefly touched Sherlock's wrist, an acknowledging gesture that he understood exactly what Sherlock meant. "I'll do what I can."

Two days later John found himself at the hospital, at Sherlock's request... or demand, really, "John today you go down to the hospital and have Molly download some files onto a flash-drive for me. Sooner rather than later, John, there's no sense in wasting time, and before you ask, she already knows which files I need... and yes she has the flash drive."

Molly was casting uneasy glances at John, who promptly ignored her as best he could. She was afraid he was angry with her for keeping Sherlock a secret, and John was terrified that Molly would ask any more personal questions about his feelings towards his aggravating, would-be dead flatmate.

"Are you two getting on, then?" Molly said after she had started the download process.

"Well enough," John said. "How long for the download?"

"The network is pretty busy today, so it might be a while. Half hour at least," she said. "Is he... you know... well, then? I mean, he's settling in and everything?"

"He's fine, he's Sherlock. You know how he is," John said in a rush.

Molly gave a sad laugh. "Bit, yeah. I am sorry, for not telling you. I wanted to. Every time I saw you at the cemetery, every time I saw you pass by the hospital. Every time you stopped at the place where he you know... fell... I wanted to say something, anything, to let you know he was okay."

John fought back a lump rising into his throat. He had Sherlock back, in his flat, alive and well, but it didn't take away the memories of what it felt like to lose him, to know that he was dead, and never coming back. It didn't take away those moments where he begged the unknown universe to return his friend back to him, even for just a moment, for a second, so he could see him, touch him, one more time.

Shaking his head, John cleared his throat. "It's over now, Molly, no sense in dwelling on it."

"I just-" she began, but John's mobile began to ring.

Gratefully, John ripped the device out of his pocket and answered it without even checking to see who it was. He expected to her Sherlock's voice on the other end, but instead it was the soft, gravely sound of a woman.

"John Watson, is your husband around?"

"My... my husband?" John stammered.

"Tell me, are you looking at those beautiful, full lips now?"

He recognized the voice after a second and he quickly made his excuses to step outside. "I'm running an errand. What do you want, Miss Adler?"

"Oooh Miss Adler, I like that. I haven't been called that in... well ever, I don't think. Where are you, Mr. Watson?"

"Out, I said," John snapped at her. "What do you want?"

"Your estimated time of arrival, of course," she said with a small laugh. "Don't be so offended, John. I had hoped Sherlock would come and play without his kept man, but it was a pointless hope. It doesn't matter though, does it? This is mostly business."

"Why is it so important for Sherlock to help you find this thief?" John demanded. "It's damn near impossible for him to leave the flat, let alone the country, without being recognized. Why him?"

"Because the thief stole from me, Mr Watson. He stole something that meant quite a lot to me and I want it back, and Sherlock is the only person on the planet I trust to get it back in the exact condition it left in," she said. Her voice had gone instantly from playful to deadly serious. "Tell me you can get him out of the country, Mr Watson."

"I don't know," John said, rubbing his face with his free hand. "Honestly, I don't know if I can without alerting people to the fact that he's alive and well."

"I will arrange for transport," she said after a moment. "I had a feeling that was going to be a problem, so I'm working on it. I'm calling in some favors, but it's going to have to wait until after Christmas." She sounded disappointed, and the sound of The Woman being disappointed sent a chill down John's spine. "Work on getting here sooner, will you?"

"I'll do what I can," John said.

"Kiss him for me, after you're done having some for yourself," she said.

"Don't be preposterous," John snapped at her.

"You and I both know the truth, John, even if I'm the only one willing to say it aloud. He's a lucky man, to have someone like you, John Watson. See you both soon."

She rang off without a real goodbye, and John slipped the mobile into his pocket. He walked back into the lab where Molly was still waiting on the download. "Was that him?"

"No," John said.

"You look peaky."

John turned and caught a glimpse of himself in the small vanity mirror on Molly's desk. He did look peaky; he looked peaky and worried and his hands were still trembling a bit. "It's been a long week, Molly, that's all."

"He does love you, you know. I think more than he's really capable of admitting." Her voice sounded small and hurt, but absolutely certain. "He watched you every single day, followed you everywhere. Every time you cried he'd... well he'd get upset. He'd start talking, reasoning out loud why he couldn't go to you and let you know that he had a plan, that he was working things out. I don't think he knew, or maybe he just didn't care, that I was listening to him. He'd talk to you even when you weren't there, John. He's never really going to live a single second without you."

John's stomach was turning in circles and he fought off a wave of dizziness. "I think you're reading too much into it, Molly."

Molly gave a sad laugh and shook her head. "All these years I've been following him around like a love-sick puppy. All these years, knowing he'd never really notice me, except to notice all the things about myself that I hated. He never looked at anything with soft eyes, not for a second. Everything he stared at was a calculation in his head, an equation he had to figure out. Nothing mattered to him. Then, one day, you walked into the lab with your cane and your mobile and your limp and something changed. He looked up at you and for the first time in his life, he looked at something with human eyes."

John licked his lips and cleared his throat. "Again, Molly, you're probably just..."

"I'm not just anything, John. I'm not as foolish as I seem, despite my actions. I know what I see, I know because I know what it's like to be in love with someone you can never have."

"I'm not in love with someone I can never have!" John snapped at her.

Molly shook her head with a very sad smile. "I know, I wasn't talking about you."

John returned to the flat, his hand sweating profusely around the flash drive. He was desperate to erase the things Molly had said to him, desperate to forget his momentary hope that she was telling the truth, that she knew what she was talking about at all.

He was terrified to look Sherlock in the face for fear he'd know something was wrong. Sherlock had an absolute way of getting information out of John, and John wasn't ready to share everything yet.

It was perhaps lucky for him, that as John put his key into the lock, a car pulled up and Mycroft Holmes stepped out. John slipped the hand with the flash drive into his pocked and released it, taking a step forward to greet Sherlock's brother.

"What brings you by?" John asked, trying to sound polite.

"May I come up?" Mycroft asked, looking up at the window.

Mycroft hadn't been by the flat since Sherlock had passed. He had called John a couple of times, to see if John needed anything, but he kept as far away from his brother's things as he could manage.

John knew Mycroft loved his brother, cared deeper than he wanted to. John knew that Mycroft directly blamed himself for Sherlock's death, and John knew a mind like Mycroft's wouldn't take that sort of guilt well.

"Oh um, yes of course," John stammered, praying that Sherlock had seen his brother pull up and was hiding carefully in the flat. John, of course, had been quite vigilant in ensuring no one would be able to tell that Sherlock had returned from the dead, but he was nervous about Mycroft's excellent perception.

The pair walked into the flat, and started up the stairs. "Mrs Hudson still on holiday?"

"Until next month," John said as they made their way into the living room. All looked well around the flat, no sign of the other resident at all.

Mycroft was looking around, but his usually keen eyes were watery and dim. "Forgive me for not coming by sooner, John," he said after some time.

"Nothing to forgive," John said. He hadn't taken a seat yet, and hurried to put the kettle on. Mycroft settled into Sherlock's usual chair and waited patiently for John to return with a tea tray, a few cheap biscuits thrown onto a plate casually.

"I'm sorry I don't have anything better," John apologized, knowing Mycroft was used to more posh treatment than this.

"This is fine, thank you," Mycroft said in an uncharacteristic kind tone.

"What brings you by, Mycroft?" John finally asked after the two men sipped on tea for a while.

"A few things," Mycroft said. He sat back and looked around at the flat. "It still looks like he lives here."

"I couldn't part with anything," John confessed, which had been true. "I keep thinking he'll pull another miracle out of his hat, and one day he'll come bounding up the stairs, his eyes lit up with some exciting adventure he'd just been on." John's throat constricted from the still-fresh memories of losing his friend. "Sorry," he said after clearing his throat.

Mycroft looked deliberately away from John, and shook his head. "Don't apologize. I should be the one offering the apology. Frankly, John, I had expected you to attack me, or at least give me a good punch in the mouth when I got out of the car."

"I thought about it," John lied. Luckily he was becoming a better liar now that he had to hide Sherlock in a secret room. "It's not worth it anymore, though, is it? We both know he didn't kill himself. We both know he has never really been a fraud, and we both know that something else happened on the roof that caused him to jump."

"This whole mess could have been prevented if I hadn't been so desperate to make that madman talk," Mycroft said, his voice thick and angry. "If I hadn't been so pompous, desperate to show up my brother by making Moriarty talk, to do something that Sherlock couldn't have done, I would have seen how Moriarty was playing me. I would have seen... I would have..."

"Enough," John said. He didn't think he could take watching Mycroft Holmes get emotional. "We know what we know and nothing is going to change that. So if you're here to apologize, I say you have nothing to apologize for."

"What if I insist?" Mycroft asked with his thin-lipped smirk.

"Then I will stop the argument here and say I forgive you," John said.

Mycroft cleared his throat and finished his cup of tea, shaking his head at John's offer of another. "I can't stay long. I have, however, another agenda."

"Oh?"

"Mummy is having Christmas dinner, and this year she is insisting that you join us."

Before John could react, there was a loud crash from behind the secret door. John jumped and directed Mycroft's attention back to him before the other man could stare too hard at the bookshelf. "Cats," John said swiftly. "Kittens, to be exact. Two of them. I couldn't stand how alone this place made me feel. Molly calls me the crazy cat lady now, but it helps. They get into the walls through old mouse holes, though."

Mycroft frowned for a moment and then shook himself out of his thoughts. "Right. As I was saying, Christmas dinner. My dear mother won't accept no for an answer, John, so really the invitation is merely a formality."

"Your mother? I thought she was... you know... dead."

"Whatever gave you that impression?"

"You and Sherlock always spoke of her in the past tense," John clarified.

Mycroft smiled tensely. "He always did. She fussed over him always and it bothered him. Every year he declared he was shot of her, done coming to her dinners and Christmases. Thanks to you he was able to decline several of her invites. She wants to meet you, John, meet the man who gave Sherlock Holmes the courage to say no to his mother."

John smiled sadly. "I'm not sure if I can, Mycroft."

"Like I said, the invitation is a formality. There will be a car here Christmas eve around five. Dinner is formal, so make sure you have something proper to wear." With that, Mycroft rose and showed himself out of the flat, leaving a stunned John sitting on the sofa, a half-cup of tea cooling in his hands.

It wasn't until he heard Sherlock shouting his name through the walls that John rose and opened the bookcase. Sherlock was pacing the floor of the secret room, a water pitcher on its side which John assumed had made the crashing sound.

"Flash drive," Sherlock said, extending a pale hand.

John fished it out of his pocket and handed it to his flatmate. "Mummy's Christmas dinner?"

Sherlock glared at John for a moment before fetching his laptop and jamming the little contraption into the proper port. "What of it?"

"I know you heard your brother," John said. "How do I get out of that?"

"You don't," Sherlock said. "I'll pick something out for you to wear, and do your best to practice looking interested in dry, dull, pointless conversation of high society."

John snorted with laughter. "Are you having me on, Sherlock?"

"Not remotely," Sherlock said in a flat tone. He pushed a few keys on the laptop and then set it on the desk. "My brother blames himself still."

"He does. We all did, a little," John confessed. "Everyone thought they could have done something for you, you know. Something to prove that we all knew you weren't a fraud. Something... something to help."

Sherlock looked annoyed and waved his hand in the air. "Don't be stupid, John, as hard a task as that might be for you. You and I both know there is a bigger conspiracy going on here, and if people would use their sadly emaciated minds for once in their lives, they could see it, too."

John chose to ignore that remark. "Irene Adler phoned me while I was out." He said it bluntly and stared at Sherlock to get his reaction.

"I hope she called only to tell you that she's arranged away for us out of the country," he said, his face not betraying any emotion, if there was any he felt, at the sound of her name.

"She's working something out. It will have to be after Christmas, however," John said.

"Ah!" Sherlock said, annoyed, throwing his hands up. "She's probably enjoying the thought of me locked up in this tiny room, going out of my mind with boredom. This is far worse than rehab ever was."

John frowned. "Rehab? When were you in rehab?"

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to, John," Sherlock said, now distracted by the files having downloaded. He pushed a few buttons and then stood up, his face alight with glee. "Perfect. Phase one is complete. Every case file on a list of potential members to Moriarty's men, and with any luck I'll be able to narrow it down before we leave. Several are in the States, John, and at least twelve in South America. The more we take down, the safer you will be if I get found out. Britain will be our last stop, and if we play our cards right, we will have more help by the end."

"And The Woman?"

"A chess piece," Sherlock declared, but John felt a hint of doubt, and, if he dare admit it, jealousy.

He thought again, on what Molly had said to him, and he still couldn't believe it. Sherlock Holmes was capable of obsession, fascination and basic human fear and caring, but love? John was all-but certain that Sherlock Holmes would never be in love with anyone.

Sherlock Holmes was bored, and a bored Sherlock was an impossible Sherlock. Dangerous, and careless, and John was having to come up with cleverer and cleverer ways of hiding his presence in the house.

It was nearly Christmas, and though John had done his best to convince Mrs. Hudson to stay with her sister, the old woman had insisted on returning to the flat. She said she was worried about John's state, and even if he wasn't going to be round on Christmas, she at least wanted to make sure she was there so he wasn't alone after the holidays.

"You're going to have to keep it down," John said, pacing the flat as Sherlock lay on the sofa, his feet kicked up on the arm. "You're going to have to stop leaving your books and papers everywhere. You're going to have to stop banging about in the room, and throwing things when you're angry."

"Do you realize what this is for me, John?" Sherlock demanded, sitting up and staring hard at John. "This is hell. My brain is far too advanced to really believe in any sort of God, or real afterlife at that, but John, this is my hell. This is hell on earth. I'm bored, John. Everything around me right now is dull and pointless and boring. My mind is racing with nothing to occupy it. Every time I come up with a lead, a potential suspect, I'm forced to sit on it, waiting, endless, pointless waiting in that tiny room, John." He flopped back down, threw his arm over his face and then muttered, "I'm dying."

"You're not dying," John muttered as he started to pick up Sherlock's half-drunk cups of coffee. "You apparently can't die. You lobbed yourself off of a building and didn't die, so being cooped up in a room for a couple of weeks isn't going to kill you."

"What do you know, John?" Sherlock snarled as he rose from the couch, swinging his robe around him angrily. "Your dull, quiet mind couldn't possibly understand the torture I must endure day after day, hour after hour being locked here with nothing. This is my abyss, John, my black hole. This is my hell."

"Dear lord," John muttered as Sherlock sauntered into his hidden room, smacking the button to replace she shelf. He sighed at Sherlock's dramatics and walked into the dark kitchen. There were beakers and a small dish of something smoking on the table, offering a rather offensive odor.

There was a crash near the pantry and the two kittens, whom Sherlock had been calling Mycroft and Lestrade, came tearing out of the pantry. The one with the darker face, Mycroft, paused under the table and John noticed that half the kitten's tail was glowing.

With an angry sigh, John marched over to the bookshelf and opened the room. "For God's sake, Sherlock, what have you done to the kitten!"

"Nothing that will harm him," Sherlock said impatiently. He was standing on the edge of the camp bed, peering out of the high window looking out into the street. "It's raining."

"It's been raining for three days straight," John said absently. "How can you say that keeping you a secret a matter of life and death, death for the people you care about if you get found out, yet you're behaving so recklessly?"

Sherlock jumped from the bed to the floor, rushing at John, stopping only inches from his face. "Reckless? When am I reckless, John?"

"Every second of every day, Sherlock," John snapped at him. "Every case, every investigation, every time you go traipsing into a trap. I've had countless sleepless nights because of you, Sherlock. Countless, fearing that you were dead, or injured, or finally got yourself into a situation you couldn't clever your way out of."

"How is that my fault? Your pointless emotional attachments to people and things is of no concern to me. The chase John, I need the chase, the danger, the puzzles and mysteries!" Sherlock backed up, throwing his hands into the air. "It's what I do."

"You died to save me," John said quietly.

Sherlock froze, and then turned slowly to face John. "What of it?"

"You staged an elaborate death, you hurt... hurt me, Sherlock, worse than anyone ever has, to protect me, and we both know that hurting me was the very last thing you ever wanted to do. You did all of that to save my life. And yet, you're being reckless now, and even by your standards, it doesn't make sense."

Sherlock blinked a few times and then hopped back up on the camp bed, peering out the window again. "I have to go, John. With our without you, I have to go. I can't be locked up in this cage any longer. I either go free, or I get caught."

"So this nonsense with the noises and the kittens and dishes all over the place, it's an ultimatum?" John asked, outraged.

"Cry for help, maybe?" Sherlock offered.

"You may think I'm stupid, Sherlock, but I'm not that stupid. If you want to get caught, fine. Do it. Walk out into the street, arms raised, and tell the world you're here. You're alive. You're not a fraud and you're back for action."

"You really are an idiot, John," Sherlock said, climbing down and sitting on the bed. He looked down at the ground, taking a few breaths. "For what it's worth, I am sorry. I'm sorry for putting you at risk."

"I don't care about being put at risk!" John nearly shouted. "If that were the case I would have gone a long time ago. The first time a woman broke it off with me because she knew that she would never measure up to your importance in my life, I would have gone. The first time someone held a gun to my head, the first time I watched you almost die, I would have gone. So don't give me that rubbish apology about being sorry. You're either committed to taking down Moriarty's enterprise from beyond the grave, and to do that, you have to live in secret, or you're not. It's up to you, and I'm going to be by your side whatever you choose, but don't ask me to keep you a secret if you're not going to bother keeping it yourself."

"When is Mrs. Hudson returning?"

John sighed at Sherlock's refusal to acknowledge what he said. "Tomorrow evening, why?"

Sherlock went to the desk and scribbled down a list of things on a scrap piece of paper. "Go to the store and fetch these things." He shoved the list at John and then added a very terse, "Please," at the end.

"What is this?" John asked, reading over the list. "Two bottles of rum, red wine- not rubbish, Jammie Dodgers..." John looked up, "Really?"

"Are you saying no?"

"I'm saying, really? You want to get drunk and fat?"

"Just for the night," Sherlock said. "I'm bored and feeling slightly mad. Feed me sweets and get me drunk, John. In the morning we'll work on our post-Christmas escape plan. And I'll stop injecting the kittens with various drugs."

"You've been giving them jabs? Of what?" John demanded.

"Off you go," Sherlock said, making it clear that he had no intention of answering that last question.

John grumbled but grabbed his coat and started off. He tried not to hear Sherlock when the bored detective called out, "And chocolate! A lot of chocolate! Chocolate cake! And cheese, some sort of French cheese! Not rubbish cheese, though!"

"He's out of his bloody mind," John grumbled as he threw up his umbrella and started down the street. "Cheese? Chocolate? He doesn't even eat, let alone eat chocolate. This is a ruse, he's up to something, and I'm sure it's no good, and this isn't going to end well for anyone."

Still, John complied with the request. He was soaking wet by the time he made it to the market. The wind had picked up and the umbrella had done thing against the rain. He shook his head as he stepped inside and grabbed a buggy.

The store seemed unusually bright against the dreary day, and it was starting to give him a headache as he trolled the aisles for the things that Sherlock had requested. Jammie Dodgers, and a few other biscuits that John could stand to eat. He filled the bottom of the basket with various chocolate bars, and a few salted caramels because it seemed appropriate.

Liquor was next, and John grabbed the most expensive bottle of red wine they had on the shelf, along with some cheap rum. When he came to the cheese, he had no idea what non-rubbish French cheese was, so he grabbed several packages, along with some crackers to accompany said cheese.

He flinched when the cashier brought up the total, but swiped his card without a word and slung the shopping bags over his shoulder. "Have a great party sir," the cashier called out.

"Are you really having a party?" came the small voice of Molly who was standing in the market doorway.

John hadn't noticed her until right then, and he flushed a little. "Not quite. Just some... some drinks and munchies. Alone."

"I see," she said and eyed the bag with all the chocolate. "Didn't know-"

"It's for me, honestly, just feeling a bit lonely," John said in a warning tone, unsure who might be listening.

"Right then," Molly said. "Well have a good night." She started off but at the last second, John grabbed her arm and pulled her outside, the pair of them taking shelter under the awning.

"What you said at the hospital, Molly."

"I didn't mean to upset you," Molly said sheepishly. "I wasn't really thinking, you know. I just, sometimes I just blurt things out like an idiot. He was always right about me, my stupid, useless mind."

"He never really thought that," John said, only a hint of a lie behind the words. "He just... he was..."

"Sherlock, I know," Molly said. "Never normal, never really quite human. Almost, he was almost human sometimes, but never completely."

John sighed and looked out into the foggy, rainy street. "I might go on holiday for a bit."

"I thought as much," Molly said.

"I wanted to say thanks though, for everything."

Molly nodded and stared down at her feet. "I've got a boyfriend, you know. A real one, proper, and not a psychotic super villain. Not gay, either."

John chuckled and shook his head. "I'm really pleased for you, Molly."

"I'm calling it, operation Get Over Sherlock. This bloke, he's not the one, but he's a good start. He's a ginger."

"I wish you many happy babies, Molly," John said, tipping an invisible hat to her.

Molly smiled. "And what about you?"

John shifted the bags against his shoulder and gave her a small smile. "I've given up on myself a long, long time ago. Have a fantastic night, Molly."

"Is this goodbye?" she asked.

John smiled at her and started away without answering a question he didn't really have an answer to.

When John arrived back at the flat, Sherlock was gone. There was a note in the secret room reading simply; **Back soon. Probably. Don't wait up, and don't touch the chocolate**.

John sighed, tossing the bags of things on the counter and he threw the note into the fireplace, watching it turn black and disappear into the ashes at the bottom. He worried, of course, because that's what John did most of the time with Sherlock. Most people hated the tall, curly-haired, insufferable detective, but those who could get past his rude, inappropriate, tactless manner, found themselves inexplicably drawn to him. And while Sherlock seemed to desire eliciting hate from people, the people who didn't hate him all the time, worried about him.

He'd gone off before, though, many times, and had come back undiscovered and unharmed. It was difficult, though, and could only be really done on dark, rainy, foggy nights like this one. Nights where people huddled up under their umbrellas, collars turned up against the pounding rain, heads ducked down low, hurrying along, desperate to get out of the weather.

It was the only time Sherlock could free himself from his little prison, free himself, even for a moment, and release some of his pent up energy. And of course John worried. Sherlock wasn't always in his right mind when it came right down to it. As a youth Sherlock had been a severe drug addict, in and out of rehab, though John didn't quite know the details of that yet.

He did know that Sherlock had a tendency to do things that weren't legal and weren't good for him. Really all John could hope for was that Sherlock found a pack of cigarettes and smoked them all before slipping into the little trap door on the roof and going to bed.

John fixed himself some tea and a sandwich, turned on the television and reclined back on the sofa. He did his best not to think about Sherlock at all, in the streets, getting up to God knows what, and eventually his eyes fluttered closed and he dropped off.

It didn't last all night, however, when around 2 o'clock in the morning John found himself waking up to the shrill sounds of the violin, and Sherlock's deep voice belting out an old Irish folk song.

John was instantly up on his feet, rushing to the window to close the drapes, and once secured, he ran to Sherlock who was prancing about the living room, and ripped the instrument straight from his hands.

"Hey!" Sherlock cried.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" John demanded as he set the instrument gingerly down on the table. He sniffed the air and realized Sherlock was all but dripping in cheap whiskey. "Are you drunk?"

"No," Sherlock said and wavered on the spot. "I'm merely slightly inebriated on cheap whiskey and a couple of pharmaceuticals that Molly stored away in her desk." His voice was slurred, but understandable, however his eyes were crossed telling John he was probably seeing double at least.

"You're taking drugs with alcohol?" John asked, shaking his head. "Are you completely mad?"

"Nearly," Sherlock said with a grin. "Nearly mad, and really that's how it should be when you're a genius of my caliber, John. Mad, we're all so mad, aren't we. Just running round, little humans, drunk with power at the illusion of our position on the food chain. Every one of us, even the dull, mindless little twerps on the tube, thinking they've got it all figured out, everything's all right there in front of them, when they have no idea. No idea that they know nothing, John. Nothing. Even you, with your sour face and angry eyes. So angry John... so..." he wavered again and John caught him, setting him down on the sofa.

"I'm going to fix you some coffee," John said as he situated Sherlock against the arm of the sofa.

"Oh fuck-off, John, I don't want coffee. I want... I want... things John, I want to be able to reach out and touch everything I see in my head, feel it in my hands. I want to feel the heartbeat of the ideas that run around my brain like little lab rats in their drug-induced frenzies. I want to tear apart the world and watch the fragments piece themselves back together again. I want to reach out and touch space, John." Sherlock's outstretched hand was trembling and he dropped it into his lap.

Ignoring Sherlock's protest at coffee, John immediately started a cup, and before long brought it back to him, exactly the way he preferred it. Black, two sugars. "Drink this," he said, setting it in front of his friend.

"You're an idiot if you think this is going to help," Sherlock said, kicking at the coffee cup but missing it by inches. "What an old wives tale, John. Caffeine isn't going to counteract the alcohol I've consumed, nor the opiates I swallowed with the whiskey. If anything it'll increase my blood flow, making me more aware and more hyper, but more sober? No."

John sighed and rubbed his face. "Where were you, besides the hospital?"

"Paid my grave a visit. It's not often one gets to visit their own grave, you know. There's even a body buried there, which makes it all the more intriguing. I picked this," he said and reached into his pocket to pull out a small, squashed violet. "This was growing there. Did you know?"

"I planted those," John said quietly. "I thought... never mind. Never mind what I thought."

"What did you think, John?" Sherlock demanded, pointing a wavering finger at John.

"It doesn't matter."

"Oh but John, what you say does matter! Don't you see, don't you see John, that the whole point of this is that you matter? What you say, what you do, who you are! It all matters, and in the end it's all that ever will." Sherlock's head suddenly drooped and it appeared that he'd passed out.

John got up and by accident, kicked the table with his leg. The noise caused Sherlock's head to snap up with a snort. "You need to get to your bed," John said.

"Ah piss off, my bed," Sherlock said, trying to wave John off with a limp hand. "I want my real bed, John. This rubbish camp bed... this... bed..." he stammered, but John was hauling the taller man to his feet.

Sherlock couldn't protest much. He had clearly imbibed more than his body could take, even if his mind was still churning, and with just a small amount of effort, John had Sherlock laying on the camp bed in the secret room.

"They built this for the Jews, you know," Sherlock said as John pulled Sherlock's boots off.

"Built what?" John asked. He tucked the boots under the bed and then pulled Sherlock's socks off as well.

"This room, this secret room," he replied, wiggling his toes, cold and wet from the rain. "Just in case. This room was meant for hiding people, unwanted people, freaks. I suppose it's fitting that I'm in there."

"The Jews are not freaks," John said irritably.

"No, they're quite lovely actually. I've always been fascinated by their beliefs, the ancient beliefs stretching back so far..." Sherlock trailed off. "But that mad man, Hitler, he called them freaks. He called them unwanted, despite _so_ many brilliant minds. They had to hide, but in the end Hitler died in disgrace. He lost."

"Yes, he did," John agreed quietly. "Go go sleep, Sherlock."

Sherlock yawned loudly and slapped a hand over his face. "I've never been wrong about you, John. Never once."

John paused in the doorway and looked back at his friend. "Thank God for small favors."

Sherlock struggled up on his elbows and closed one eye to see John properly. "I mean it, John. You've never failed me. So many have. So many pointless humans I've had to trust in my life, all of them letting me down one by one, proving that I can't trust anyone. Then you walked into the lab one day and you changed everything for me. From the moment I set eyes on you I knew you were different. So different."

John cleared his throat, his face heating up slightly. "Go to sleep, Sherlock, and remember Mrs Hudson is back tomorrow, so we're going to have to come up with another plan for you."

Sherlock flopped back down onto his bed and turned away from the door. John stood there for a long time, and only after he was sure that Sherlock was completely unconscious did he walk out and close the bookcase behind him. John's emotions were running high and he thought back again on Molly's words. "I know what it's like to be in love with someone who will never love you back."

What John only just realized was that Molly was only half right, because from the moment John met Sherlock, everything was different.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This may possibly do it for updates for this weekend. Work calls, along with my book (sigh), but expect the story to be near to complete by mid next week. Thank you to all of my readers and feel free to review or PM for any questions or critiques. As always, enjoy!**

John adjusted his tie for the tenth time in front of the mirror. The clock read 4:40 which meant twenty minutes later a car would arrive to pick him up and take him to Mrs. Holmes estate for Christmas dinner.

Mrs Hudson had returned from her holiday with her sister, feeling refreshed, though she still burst into tears every now and again at the sight of some of Sherlock's things. "Why don't we just give these things to charity, dear? Do you really need all of these things? These books and papers and things?" She fingered a pile of scratched out notes in Sherlock's scrawling handwriting.

"I just... I can't. Not yet. Please," John begged her. His begging came from knowing what Sherlock might do to him if he got rid of a single scrap of paper, not out of grief, but the sweet little landlady couldn't tell the difference.

"I understand dear," she said and pat his arm. She looked around and sighed. "It's hard to remember he won't be dashing up these stairs any longer, isn't it?" She shook her head and looked out the window. "Sometimes I swear I can still hear him up here bashing about, cooking up strange things in his beakers and hiding little pots of eyes and thumbs in my fridge."

John chuckled and hugged the old woman. She went off back down the stairs, leaving John alone in the flat. Sherlock no longer had free reign over the apartment, and due to Mrs Hudson's fussiness over John's state, and possible depression, she was up stairs a lot more than normal, making it nearly impossible for Sherlock to sneak out.

John managed to convince Mrs Hudson to go and see her sons in Brighton for Christmas, and vowed he would be away until the new year, so she might as well do the same. Mrs Hudson agreed, with the vow she would return on the second of January promptly, so John wouldn't feel alone for even a moment.

John saw her off with a wave and a kiss to her cheek, and the moment the car pulled away, Sherlock came bounding out of the secret room, flopping on the couch with a dramatic sigh. "I feel near to the point of suffocation, John. This holiday is dragging on far too long, and if we can't get out of here soon I may just blow up the flat to give us a better get away."

"How will blowing up the flat give us a better get away?" John demanded, sitting in the chair, his jaw slightly tense. "You're not actually serious, are you?"

"Completely serious. It would be quite the distraction, don't you think? Everyone will be fussing about the state of the building, putting out fires, tending to the unfortunate passers by who may get caught up in the blast. No one will think I'm implicated, obviously, they'll likely blame it on part of the Moriarty organization and that will draw attention elsewhere. I'll be able to make a clean get away and no one would think you mad for leaving London so suddenly. After all, you could have been in the building. It was by sheer luck that you decided to pop off for a pint. You could have been dead, and rightly so. A near death experience really can take a lot out of a man, especially after he's lost his friend."

John rolled his eyes and rubbed his face. "For Christ's sake, Sherlock, I forbid you from blowing up the flat. If you can possibly scrape together a bit more patience, we're going to be leaving just after Christmas. That's three days away."

"It's not a guarantee, and I'm merely letting you know, John, that if The Woman does not come through for us on that date, make sure you have something else to do."

John realized how serious Sherlock was, and he felt a chill run through him. "Keep it together for a bit longer, please. For me."

Sherlock looked at John with unreadable eyes, and didn't answer him. He merely got up and started a pot of coffee, and went to work on a few things in his kitchen lab. He ignored John's protests that people were starting to notice that Sherlock's things were being used, and eventually John stopped arguing with him and turned in for the night.

Now he stood, ignoring Sherlock looking on at his appearance, and he gave his hair one last comb. "Mycroft is the fussy one, John," Sherlock said, sounding bored. "Mother isn't honestly going to care about the state of your hair. She hasn't once complained about mine," he said and gave his curly locks a little shake. "Well maybe once or twice, but you're a military man."

"I don't want to do this, Sherlock," John said as he straightened his already pristine shirt. "I don't want to go to your mother's house and try and comfort a woman grieving for her son that is alive and well in a secret cupboard in my flat."

"Our flat," Sherlock said absently. He was now flipping though a book written in Greek. "Mother isn't the grieving type, she's not one for huge displays of emotion; I'm sure you can well imagine where Mycroft and I got it from."

"You are her son, Sherlock. Just because she's not the grieving type doesn't mean she's not going to grieve the loss of her child."

"She didn't bat an eyelash when my sister turned up dead," Sherlock deadpanned.

John gave a choking sort of cough and took the book away from Sherlock. "Dead sister? You have a dead sister?"

Sherlock swiped at the book, but John kept it away from him. He cast John an annoyed pout and crossed his arms. "Yes, sister, dead. She was fifteen, bit wild, if you ask me. Kept running away to London with her friends. It was no surprise, honestly, when her body turned up in the Thames. Mycroft was mainly angry, and mother was just worried about the scandal. Luckily she was mugged and murdered, and it didn't have anything to do with her status as a whore."

"My god," John breathed.

Sherlock took the moment of John's shock to retrieve his book and he opened it once more. "No need to overreact. You've seen more dead bodies since you met me than you had in the whole of the war, John. One dead hooker floating in a river shouldn't really matter."

"She was your sister," John nearly shouted.

Sherlock snapped the book closed and leaned forward. "She was an idiot. She was more interested in rebelling, in making our parents angry and making Mycroft turn red, and taunting me with the ideas of sex positions than she was with having a remotely successful life. She was never going to become anything other than a drain on society and a burden to my family. So yes, she was my sister, by blood, but in the end that didn't matter, and it didn't save her."

John felt the heat in his cheeks start to subside and he shook his head. "I'll never understand you, or your family I don't think."

"I should think not," Sherlock said, his voice giving away that he was now absorbed into the book again.

With a sigh, John walked to the window and checked his watch. "It's four fifty-five, Sherlock-"

"Already on my way," came his voice from the other side of the room.

John heard the bookshelf slide shut and then he went to the stairs to wait. Mycroft, if anything, was punctual, and as the hand on the clock touched the five and the twelve, the buzzer sounded. John thought briefly about saying goodbye to his friend, but thought better of it.

The car was a large town car, windows tinted, and when the driver opened the door for him to get in, he was surprised, yet happy, to find he was alone. He settled in his seat for the drive, and tried to make sure he was composed, all thoughts of dead Holmes sisters out of his mind, before he reached the manor.

And a manor it most certainly was, John realized as the car pulled up to the home almost an hour later. It stood looming, tall and dense against the greenery surrounding it. Saying it was old would have been an understatement, it was practically a castle in its own right, and at the sight of the pristine landscaping and the actual peacocks running round in the front didn't do much to relieve that image of royalty.

The car pulled up to the front of the house where Mycroft was waiting, looking as he usually did, well groomed in his suit and tie. He met John with a smile and a nod as the doctor got out of the car and straightened himself up.

"John, glad you could make it," he said, purely out of formality.

John chose not to respond with honesty, instead giving Mycroft's hand a shake. The elder Holmes led the way into the house, and straight into the parlor where a couple of guests were milling about. They all stopped talking the moment John entered and they stared.

"Forgive the interruption," Mycroft said, "but allow me to present Doctor John Watson."

Not having much time to take in the room or appearances, John was presented first to a tall, thin woman with greying blonde hair, sharp brown eyes and a rather pointed face. She extended her bony hand and gave John a nod.

"This is my wife, Camille," Mycroft said.

John almost physically startled, but stopped himself. He had never really considered Mycroft as a man who would take a wife, much like Sherlock. He was stoic, unpleasant on his best days, and obsessed with his work.

Yet, here this woman stood, gaudy ring looking like it weighed more than her hand, her terse smile, her pressed, black dress hugging her thin waist and flat breasts. Yes, if John were to picture Mycroft Holmes with a wife, this would be it.

"Pleasure," John said and released her hand quickly.

The second person the room was a teenager, and bore an uncanny resemblance to the younger Holmes brother. He shared Sherlock's powerful jawline, cheekbones, icy blue eyes and black curls. The only difference was he was a bit stockier, and his nose was quite thin.

"My son, Basil," Mycroft said.

John extended his hand to the teen, but Basil stared at him like he was a leper, nodded and turned back to his mobile he was furiously typing on.

"Forgive him, in his raging hormones he's seems to have forgotten common speech and manners," Mycroft growled.

"We all did, didn't we?" John said sympathetically. He knew it couldn't have been easy to be the son of Mycroft Holmes. From what John learned, Mycroft had practically raised Sherlock, and John saw how well that had turned out.

"Mother should be down shortly, and dinner will begin," Mycroft said and then walked to an elaborate liquor cabinet. "Drink, John?"

"Oh yes, please," John said and gratefully took the liberal scotch Mycroft poured him.

"I imagine this isn't easy for you, and I do apologize ahead of time for any awkwardness," Mycroft said as he gestured for John to sit.

The sofas in the room, like everything else about the house and inside of it, were antique. Victorian in style, though John was by no means an expert in period furniture. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, unforgiving and the fabric was rough against his hand as he steadied himself.

Mycroft seemed at ease here, and John tried to imagine the boys growing up in this sort of palace, tutors, most likely, of the finest minds in Britain. They likely attended high society parties, and if Mycroft's government position was any indication, they had always been quite close to the head of politics and the Royal family.

A few minutes of very tense silence passed. Eventually Camille Holmes turned to John and said, "Are you still a doctor?"

"Er, no," John said, "not practicing anyway. I was an army doctor."

"So what do you plan to do now that Sherlock is dead?" Her voice was harsh and cold, matter-of-fact and it startled John. "Obviously you are in no position to continue consulting for the London Police, are you?"

"Camille, please," Mycroft bit at her.

"No, it's fine," John said, waving his hand. "I've briefly considered taking a position at St. Bart's. Working with Sherlock gained me a few contacts there and I've been told I'm welcome to come in and discuss a post once my mourning period is over."

"Well that shouldn't take long, should it?" she said with a shrug. "I don't imagine anyone taking long to get over that man's death. You least of all; you had to live with him."

John's face reddened and Mycroft's face all but begged John not to answer. It was easy enough, now that he knew Sherlock was safely inside the flat, alive, possibly building a bomb, but alive. Eventually John simply shook his head and said nothing.

To his great relief, John was soon up on his feet at the announcement Lady Holmes. The Lady, part, somewhat surprised him, but only momentarily until he thought about the house and the brothers and everything else surrounded the Holmes'.

Lady Holmes was, John noted, striking in her appearance. She was tall and regal, as Sherlock was, her hair iron grey, waist thin, and spectacular curves for a woman of her age. Her face, though done up with make up, had been unaltered. Her wrinkles, however, gave her character, the crows feet near her icy blue eyes, and the laugh lines near her mouth.

She smiled at the lot of them as she entered the room, and allowed her eldest son to kiss her before she greeted her daughter-in-law and grandson. "Still attached to that contraption, is he?" Lady Holmes asked as she received a kiss from the boy who barely tore his eyes from the screen of the small phone.

"It's become a second appendage," Mycroft complained.

"Boys will be boys," she said, waving her hand in the air. "If I recall, during your teenage phase you spend most of your days and nights in that ruddy sports car, Mycroft. And that leather jacket, such a rebel."

John tried not to snicker at the thought of Mycroft traipsing around London James Dean style, with slicked back hair and sun glasses. Mycroft, for his part, looked properly horrified that his mother would choose to bring up such a time in his life, and he blushed.

"Mother, allow me to introduce your requested guest," Mycroft said.

Lady Holmes didn't let her son finish the introduction. "Mr Watson," she said, extending her hand.

"It's Doctor," John said without thinking, blushed hard and then stammered. "I'm so sorry... so... so sorry. Force of habit, I assure you. Mr Watson is perfectly fine."

Lady Holmes smiled, her head cocked to the side and then chuckled. "No need for apology, if you're a doctor, you've earned the title. I'm afraid neither one of my sons made that clear to me, in describing you."

"Oh?" John asked, shooting a frown at Mycroft.

"Well our dearly departed Sherlock always referred to you as his slightly dim flatmate, or the insufferable John, and the like."

John felt a pang of humorous anger toward his friend and shook his head. "That sounds about right. Sounds like something he would have said, anyway. I'm very pleased to meet you, Lady Holmes."

"Oh it's Christmas, there's no need for formalities. Please, call me Beth, and I shall assume John is fitting for the night." Beth then led the way to the dining room where soup was being ladled out into gold accented china on a very long table, heavy with all of the Christmas trimmings.

She insisted John set at her left, Sherlock's previously occupied seat, and while John felt slightly uncomfortable in doing so, he found he could not argue with the older woman.

"Mycroft, would you care to lead the prayer?" his mother asked as they all settled into their seats.

John was surprised at the word prayer. Neither Holmes brother seemed to be bothered with God or religion, so John assumed they had been raised as such. Mycroft, for his part, looked a bit put out but crossed himself and led the prayer for the meal.

"Thank you," Beth said and smiled at her son. She picked up her spoon and everyone followed suit. "Well John, how are you getting along now, are you still at the Baker Street flat?"

"I am," John said as he swallowed a bit of the pea soup. "Things are starting to get a bit back to normal, considering the circumstances. I've considered working for St. Bart's but I might go on holiday beforehand."

"You didn't mention holiday to me before," Mycroft said.

John frowned. "You didn't ask." He found it odd that Mycroft would bother himself with his holiday, or bother with him at all, now that he believed Sherlock to be dead.

"I suppose it makes sense, doesn't it?" Beth said. "One doesn't just get over such things as losing a lover."

John nearly spit out his soup and apologized profusely, mopping up his face a bit. "I'm sorry, Sherlock and I weren't... we were not... er... you know... like that," he stammered. "Friends. We were just friends."

"Oh?" Beth asked, her eyebrows raised. "I merely assumed it was more than that, the way Sherlock was always on about you. Every time I asked him over he would say he had plans with you, John. When I asked him to bring you round for Christmas he insisted that you two have a private celebration between the two of you. He wasn't very inclined to share things, our Sherlock."

"No, he wasn't," Mycroft muttered.

John's face, it seemed, was going to spend a great deal of this Christmas dinner quite red. He finished off his soup and finally said, "He was a very consuming friend, but a friend only. He wasn't the type to be romantic."

"Never really was, was he?" Beth mused, her eyes growing sad and misty for a moment.

John wondered if this was the same woman who had brushed off the death of her daughter so readily, who had taught her sons to push aside grief and pain because there was no use for it. The group tucked into the Christmas dinner, roast beef, sprouts with bacon, potatoes and trifle to finish it off.

When everyone was quite full and sleepy, Beth insisted on having sherry in the parlor while Mycroft played a few Christmas tunes on her piano. Mycroft, while obviously not thrilled, indulged his mother and struck up a few of the old classics. No one, of course, sang, the teen hunched in the corner still on his mobile, and Camille looking bored and vacant.

John felt a bit lonely and awkward, and eventually started browsing the walls. Though everything was quite historic and Victorian, he was pleased to see family pictures lining every free space in the room. He caught glimpses of the boys when they were young, each in their school uniforms, looking put together and irritated.

There were collages up and down the walls of personal photographs taken of the boys playing, several of what had to be Sherlock dressed quite elaborately as a pirate, complete with the eye patch, charging around the gardens with a wooden sword in hand.

"He was a very imaginative young boy, my Sherlock," Beth said from behind John.

John startled a little, and gave the old woman a smile. "So I've heard. His mind was constantly racing, exploring, calculating, drinking in everything. I've never met anyone like him."

"I doubt you ever will. He was a lot like my late husband, my Sherlock. Brave and reckless and loyal so long as you gave him reason to be so. The boys got their brains from their father. I was never much the thinker, though my husband always called me the philosopher. Always on about God and the Universe, he'd say to me, without a point, but with such passion." She trailed off and laughed. "The boys wanted to be like their father, and they quite succeeded, but Sherlock, he was different. Oh he had the mind of a madman, but his heart... oh the times I held that boy while he cried and raged at the cruelty and injustice of the world."

"What happened?" John asked.

"She did," Beth said, and pointed to a picture of the three Holmes siblings. It was a larger photograph, and there was Mycroft in the back, nearly a grown man, larger in stature and weight, with his hair trimmed neatly, his suit stretching over his body. To the side were Sherlock, looking quite the same, pale, piercing eyes, and shaggy, black curls. Next to him stood a girl, feminine and petite, yet she looked so much like Sherlock. Her hair was the same rich black, her eyes the piercing blue, her lips full and nose wide.

"Twins? Were they twins?" John breathed.

"They were indeed. Did Sherlock ever mention his sister? Agatha?"

"Only once, and not by name," John said.

"I'm not surprised. Sherlock spent his entire childhood chasing after that girl, making sure she was safe, doing what he could to make decisions for her. She was stupid, to be honest, John. She didn't have much care for anyone or anything. Sherlock told her she would end up dead and she laughed at him and mocked him. I heard her shouting at him in the foyer before she left, the night she died. 'We all die, Sherlock, you stupid sod. We all live and we all die and if you try and cling on to me with this silly idea of love, you'll only end up a broken, ugly man, alone and pointless.' He cried for weeks after her death. He blamed himself for not going after her.

"One day, however, he just got up. He wiped his tears, he got dressed, and he left. Five years he was gone. Mycroft eventually found him, pumped full of drugs, nearly starving to death, puncture wounds in his arms infected from dirty needles. He walked away from it scarred but clean. It took him two years of rehab to stop. Did he ever tell you that, John?"

"No," John said, and he wished he wasn't hearing this from his friend's mother.

"Have I upset you?" she asked, putting her arm on John's shoulder.

John cleared his throat. "No, you haven't. It's all things I suspected, but never really knew. I only wish I'd heard them from Sherlock, but I understand why he couldn't... why he never..."

"Agatha scarred him worse than any needle, any knife, any bomb blowing up near his face. He shut himself off, let his brain take over, and we all knew he would break one day. I had hoped though, John, the day I heard your name from his lips, that things might change. He'd never be my little boy, ranging about cruelty and injustice again, but maybe someone might reach him. All wounds heal, but he wasn't given the time." Beth was crying now, quietly and politely, dabbing the corners of her eye with a handkerchief. "I miss him."

John touched her arm, offering what little comfort he could. He felt like a fraud, like a villain, having this great secret that would ease her suffering, if only a little, but he could not tell her. He couldn't tell anyone and he hated himself a little bit for it.

He was ready to go, to leave Sherlock's childhood home and he was ready to leave Britain for a while. He finally realized what Sherlock meant when he said that this captivity was killing him. John may not have been captive to a flat, or to a room, but he was captive to this secret, forced to live a lie while the few people who truly loved Sherlock Holmes mourned him. Needlessly.

"I think it's time I'm off," John said when Beth had composed herself. "You've been more than gracious, but it's all been a bit much for me."

"We all understand, dear, truly," Beth said. "It was selfish of me to bring you here, but I wanted to meet the only person who could ever steal the heart of Sherlock Holmes."

Mycroft showed John to the door, giving him a terse, typical goodbye with a firm handshake and a nod. "Do forgive us for being insensitive."

John laughed and shook his head. "I've come to expect nothing less, Mycroft. Thank you for having me over, your family, despite their quirks, are lovely. Your son is going to be fine, by the way."

Mycroft frowned and glanced towards the parlor. "He's different."

"That's not a bad thing," John said, "believe me. Happy Christmas."

John went out the door, closing it behind him, but before he could reach the bottom step to the driveway, he heard the door open and he turned. Elizabeth was walking out, clutching something in her hands. It was quite dark, but John could see tears had formed in the corners of her eyes.

"I wanted to give you this," she said. She approached him and handed him a small stack of photographs. "My husband was never an emotional man, Dr Watson. He found expressing emotions to be a waste of time, but he was a good man and he loved his children dearly. Even Agatha, despite how much pain she caused, and trouble, he loved her. He showed his love through photographs. You would hardly find that man without a camera in his hands. The boys loathed it, and even Agatha, who loved attention, came to resent him a little for it.

"I used to scold my husband, tell him to leave the children alone, but now I'm glad he didn't listen. Now I'm grateful for every single shot he took of them, because I'm down to one now. One child left." Her voice broke a little at the end and her trembling hand held the photos out to John.

"I don't know if I should take these," John hesitated.

"Oh I have copies. I have copies of copies, John. Sherlock would likely return from the dead and kill me, should he have any idea that I'm giving these to you, but it doesn't really matter now, does it?"

John took the photos and slipped them into his jacket without looking at them. "Thank you."

She nodded and kissed his cheek. "I see what he saw in you, John. You have everything Sherlock should have been, without the curse of that mind. I take solace in the fact that you were there for him. After Agatha, I always knew Sherlock would break, that he would die by his own hand. I knew that if no one could reach him, he'd eventually just stop."

"I'm... I'm sorry I couldn't... that I didn't..." John stammered.

She waved him off and laughed. "There's nothing to apologize for, honestly. Sherlock was Sherlock and there was no stopping him when he decided that he had something to do. No drug, no bottle of liquor, no desperate plea from the mouth of his mother could stop him."

"Are you going to be alright?" John asked her.

She looked mildly surprised at the question and dabbed at her eyes. "I suppose I will. No mother wants to bury their child, yet here I am, having done it twice. I couldn't even bear to go to the funeral, though I have had my private moments at his resting place. We all move on, and I'm probably not long for this world, and to me that's a comfort. Mycroft is his own man, now, the only one who really could stand on his own and I'm happy for that. So yes, Dr Watson, I believe I will be alright, in the end."

John bowed his head and then gave her a short hug. "Thank you. For everything."

"You're welcome dear, and call any time. It's refreshing to have a mind like yours around once in a while."

"Mother?" called Mycroft from the door, suddenly.

"Be right in dear," she called. "I expect I won't see you soon, but I do hope I'll see you again."

John smiled and nodded but didn't make a promise he wasn't sure he could keep. He got into the waiting car and gave a great sigh as he heard the wheels crunch over the gravel as it sped off into the night.

A while down the road, John turned on one of the car's reading lights and pulled the photos from his pocket. There were only about six of them, one of Sherlock as a toddler, standing next to his sister and brother, looking sullen and cute with his pin curls and piercing eyes. The next two were of Sherlock dressed as a Pirate, and John felt a sort of glee with those. It was proof that Sherlock was a child, that he had been human, and carefree and full of life.

Two of the photographs looked like they were taken when he was a teenager. He was alone in both photos, and looked as though he had no idea his photo was being taken. He looked curious, his eyes bright, he was reading in one and sitting on a tree swing in the other. The photo of him on the swing he wore jeans, combat boots and a black T-shirt that read Black Sabbath.

John chuckled at the thought of teenaged Sherlock rocking out to 80's music, bit goth, probably writing terrible poetry and having unrequited crushes on girls at school. Part of him wished he could have seen that Sherlock, just gotten a glimpse of him before everything turned sour in his life, and his sister died.

The last photo was more recent. It was Sherlock standing next to a very frail, thin man with thin hair and big circles under his eyes. On the back read Sherlock and Dad 2001. John couldn't be sure, but he assumed that the photo was the last time Sherlock had seen his father.

It was strange for John, to think of Sherlock having an entire life, a family, a history, a childhood. The man he knew was not a man you could easily associate with normalcy, in any regards, and these photos started to feel like a touchstone for John. Sherlock was human. He was a person, a broken person but a person all the same, and maybe when everyone said that Sherlock needed him, that he loved John, maybe they were actually right.

-pqpqpq-

When the car pulled up to the flat, he bade the driver a thanks and farewell before stepping out. He hadn't reached the first step and the car had zoomed out of sight. With a sigh, John fumbled for his keys, but before he could open the door, his mobile rang.

The number was blocked, and while that usually meant something very terrible, John answered anyway. "Hello?"

"There is a cab across the street. I want you to get into it. The driver knows where to go."

"Sherlock?"

"No, it's the bloody queen. Who else would be phoning you this time of night?" Sherlock's irritated voice snapped.

"Where the hell are you?"

"I'm nearby. The cabbie has been waiting for you all night. Transportation has been arranged for us. I've taken the liberty of packing for you. Hurry up, John, we've got quite the journey ahead of us."

"What journey? Where are we going? How have you arranged transportation?" John demanded.

"Get in the damned cab or he's going to leave without you!" Sherlock shouted and then rang off.

John saw the cab's lights go on, so he rushed across the street and got in. The man was no one he recognized, and in fact the man didn't even look back at John before taking off down the street. The cab was speeding along, navigating the streets with ease, when it suddenly came to a stop in front of an old factory.

"This is your stop, mate," the cabbie said.

With a frown, John opened the door. "Do I er..."

"Fare's covered."

"Right, then," John said and got out. He was standing in an empty car park next to an abandoned, rusted old factory and he was suddenly struck with a fear that he might die. What if the voice on the line hadn't been Sherlock? Or had been Sherlock in distress?

His questions were answered, however, when a huge town car with impossibly black windows pulled up. The door opened and Sherlock's voice snapped, "Get in!"

John immediately obeyed and found himself sitting on a very comfortable seat next to his friend. "What's this about, then?"

The car sped off, Sherlock smirking out the window, his fingers toying with one of his more colorful scarves. "The Woman. She came through early."

John felt something heavy hit his stomach from the inside out. He cleared his throat and then said, "Good. Excellent. Where are we off to, then?"

"Plymouth."

"Plymouth? What the hell is in Plymouth?"

"A port," Sherlock said. He was still staring out the window, watching the city speed by them. "I don't know anything else, but I expect I will when we arrive. Either way, we have several hours so might as well make yourself comfortable."

"Right," John said. He was a bit thrown off by everything, and shaken up. He had hoped for at least one good night's sleep, especially after the events at the dinner, so the realization he was going to have to sleep in a car wasn't a welcome one.

"Your hands are shaking. I take it mother is still inflicting her emotional torment on everyone around her?" Sherlock asked.

"Your mother was quite lovely, actually," John defended. "She loves you a lot, Sherlock. Do you have any idea how hard it was to watch her cry over you?"

"No," Sherlock said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Then again, my mind is used for greater purposes than bothering with other people's emotional states. I expect Mycroft's wife and son were there?"

"Indeed," John said. "What a treat that was."

Sherlock and John shared a look and a small laugh. "Ah Camille, still my biggest fan, is she? I suspect she still hates me for what I did at their wedding."

"Oh lord," John said. "What did you do at their wedding?"

"I'm surprised she didn't spend all night describing it to you," Sherlock said with a grin. "I cried openly, and revealed her affair with Mycroft's college mate. He married her anyway, obviously, since Mycroft wasn't exactly interested in true love, but he was furious with me for ages."

"I would imagine so," John said.

"Especially since he already knew about it," Sherlock chuckled. "I don't know why he felt the need to procreate, frankly. His child hasn't half the mind a Holmes man should have, and besides being quite dull, all he bothers with is sex."

"Are you talking about Mycroft or your nephew?" John asked.

"My nephew," Sherlock said and then paused. "I've never called that child my nephew."

"He's not a child anymore," John said. "He looked about fifteen at least."

"A child," Sherlock said firmly. As John fell silent, Sherlock reached into his pockets and pulled out a pill bottle. He opened up the top and poured three out into his hand.

"What are those?" John demanded. He instantly remembered the story of Sherlock's rehab and it frightened him.

"Opiates," Sherlock said casually. He started to tip them to his mouth, but John grabbed his wrist. "What are you doing, John?" he demanded.

"Why are you taking those?" John asked.

"I'm bored," Sherlock said. "I dislike being trapped in vehicles for an extended period of time and I need something to calm my nerves." Sherlock stared at John and then rolled his eyes. "Mother told you about rehab, didn't she?"

"Look, I just worry about you, okay. With your brother constantly having me pull drug searches in the flat, and your reaction any time Lestrade pulls his drug bust scenario, and yes, after what your mum said, I just think-"

"What John? That I might start shooting up again? I might take to the streets, rob people for their drugs and money, sleep on infested mattresses, squatting and starving to death? I assure you, I was a child, a stupid one at that, I learned that lesson pretty harshly, and a couple of opiates aren't going to send me into a downward drug spiral. My brain runs a thousand miles a minute, John. I can't simply look at a thing, I look and I see, and it's exhausting, especially while trapped in a car, and I'd like a little relief." He finished the last word with heavy stress on it.

John's eyes scanned the car and found tucked into the door a bottle of amber colored liquor, highball glasses, and, as he explored further, a pack of cigarettes. "How about this?" he offered.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Are you trying to tempt me with alcohol and cigarettes over a couple of Percocet? Do explain how that is better?"

"It would make me feel better, Sherlock. Please."

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh, put the pills back in the bottle, and the bottle back into his pocket. He gave John a nod, who poured two stiff drinks and passed a cigarette and a lighter over to Sherlock. "I don't want you picking up the habit again, but I won't complain about it in the car."

Sherlock took a long drag from the cigarette and rolled down the window a crack to dispose of the smoke in his lungs. "The drink," he said stiffly and took a swallow when John handed it over. "So what else did dear Mummy tell you? Did she tell you all about my sister? I know you were dying to ask more questions about her."

"She told me a bit, yeah," John said. "She was your twin sister."

"Indeed."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I hardly thought such a trivial detail mattered," Sherlock said with a shrug. He finished off the first cigarette in record time and demanded a second.

With a sigh, John complied. "I think it's a pretty significant detail, Sherlock. She was your twin, you shared a womb."

"For nine months out of our entire lives, a time where we lived but we were not conscious or aware. Why should it matter that we were carried together?"

"I just... I don't know. I thought twins had a sort of special bond or something," John floundered.

"My sister was insufferable," Sherlock said. "She had a brilliant mind which she wasted on figuring out ways to get larges sums of money off of men by sucking their cocks and letting them fuck her up the arse."

John's face blushed a deep crimson. He had never heard Sherlock use such graphic language before, and frankly he thought Sherlock didn't even know half of those words.

"I'm sorry, John, am I making you uncomfortable?"

"No, not at all," John stammered.

"My father taught the three of us how to use our minds. How to see, not just observe. Before the age of ten I could deduce a person's occupation simply by the smattering of dust and dirt on the hem of their trousers. Agatha preferred to con people, to use them and throw them away, including me. I felt like her protector and for years I lied for her, took the blame for her at school, when she made enemies, I was the one who fought them off.

"She repaid me by having sex for money, and dying in disgrace, face down in a river, the lonely whore she had become. She spat in the face of everything I had ever done for her, and all it taught me was that love was a waste. Love was pointless. No matter how much you love, you're still going to die alone."

John licked his lips and then said very quietly, "You died, Sherlock, and you're not alone."

"You know what I mean," Sherlock bit. He was on his third cigarette now and they weren't even thirty minutes into the trip.

"Do I? I can't imagine what you had to go through, Sherlock, I really can't. You know my sister, her troubles, and our terrible relationship. I've never really lost anyone close to me until I lost you. And don't give me that look, I realize what you did and why, but the point is, for a period of time, I lost the one person I had really bothered to care about in a long time.

"I didn't shut off, either. You told me that you were a fraud, you lied to me, you refused my offer for help and then you lobbed yourself off of a building and came crashing down. I clung to your lifeless wrist as paramedics carted off your bashed up, bloody body onto a stretcher and then I watched in horror as they buried you. You, Sherlock, my best friend. The only person that really mattered. The only person I really wanted to help."

"I don't really see your point, John," Sherlock said, though his voice was a bit different, fuller than usual, less cold.

"My point is that I didn't shut off," John said. "I didn't just stop giving a shit about the world and the people who loved me. I had a hard time imagining how I was going to go on without you, Sherlock, that much is true, but I didn't just stop."

"Who said I stopped?" Sherlock said.

"No one had to say it," John replied stoically.

The pair fell totally silent for the remainder of the trip. John eventually nodded off, his head lolling against Sherlock's shoulder, and the other man didn't bother to move him. Sherlock finished off the pack of cigarettes and the bottle of liquor, but he didn't touch the pills.

The four hours passed quickly for John, and in what seemed like no time at all, Sherlock was shaking him awake. "Get up, John. We've arrived."

John's eyes opened reluctantly and he saw they were parked at a private pier. It was impossibly dark out, only one dim streetlamp lighting the dock, and off to the side was an immense yacht sloshing against the water.

"What is this?" John asked, stifling a yawn.

"No idea," Sherlock said.

"Hello boys," came the soft, female voice from the ship. The pair heard the soft clicking of high heels and after a few moments, a woman came into view. She had very blonde hair, done up in an elegant knot. She was curvy and dressed casually in linen capris and a yellow tunic. "Don't you have a hello for your cousin, John?" she scolded.

"My cousin?" John asked.

"Don't be an idiot, that's obviously The Woman," Sherlock muttered. "She's wearing body enhancements, a wig, heavy make-up. She isn't as notorious as I am, so a simple disguise will work for her. Likely she's posing as your Canadian cousin, Mary Watson, who does, in fact, own a Yacht and travels with it to the UK quite often."

"How do you know that?" John asked.

Sherlock merely looked at him sideways and then stepped forward. "Mary, I presume?"

"Sorry the trip had to be so late, boys, but it's hard to find good help on Christmas. The yacht is waiting, are you ready for an adventure."

John looked at Sherlock who was grinning from ear to ear. His fists were clenched and in the dark he all-but shouted, "Oh you have no idea."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N- To give an early warning, this chapter contains things of a sexual nature, mainly in character discussion. Also, this story isn't going to be traditional slash. I like the idea that Sherlock and John are a married couple, but Sherlock is and always will be asexual by nature, and John is the ladies man. I have faith I can make it work with those two so bear with me. Irene Adler will be a fairly large part of this fic as well because, frankly, I ADORE her. She is a fantastic character and deserves to be explored more. Though my husband disagrees, I'm convinced we caught a glimpse of Irene's Jealousy over Sherlock's relationship with John in the first episode of Series 2. Either way, it's the idea I got from it and I'm running with it. This fic is beginning to grow larger than I anticipated, and while it's taking away time from my actual soon-to-be published novel, I don't care. I'm having way too much fun, especially when I can picture Benny boy in my head as I type out Sherlock's lines.**

**As always, I appreciate the reviews and favorites, etc. Feel free to review or PM with any questions.**

~pqpqpq~

"I took the liberty of having your things brought to your room," Irene said as she led Sherlock and John aboard the ship. She nodded to a couple of uniformed men taking the suitcases down into the hull.

"So we're just going to sail away on this boat with you, is that it?" John demanded.

"That's exactly right, Dr Watson... or should I call you Mrs Holmes?"

"You know what," John snarled.

"Don't bother," Sherlock interrupted. He swiftly led the way to the front of the yacht where several couches sat around a small fire pit, along with at table heavy with wine.

"Don't you ever get tired of those ridiculous comments?" John asked Sherlock quietly as they stood near the sofas.

"Not particularly, no," Sherlock said absently as he looked over the dark waters. "Should it?"

"It's just, it's all... you know... not true," John said.

"Oh I wouldn't say that," Irene said as she sat down on one of the sofas and started pouring out wine. "But I suppose your sexually repressed marriage is none of my business. It's good to see you boys again, I can tell you that."

"Indeed," Sherlock said as he took a sofa opposite Irene. John eventually lowered himself down on the same sofa as Sherlock, though a few cushions away. "I'm only surprised it took you this long to arrange these accommodations."

"Things take time, Sherlock. You could do with a bit of patience," Irene chastised. She stood up and passed a glass of wine to John, and then one to Sherlock.

John, feeling uncomfortable and out of place, tipped back the entire glass in one go. The wine was rubbish, both bitter and sour, and it burned on the way down. He suppressed a small gag, but didn't find himself surprised that Sherlock seemed to rather enjoy the taste of his.

"Shall we get down to business?" John asked after a few tense moments.

"Oh business," Irene said, waving her hand. "We have days to discuss business. Wouldn't want to use up all of your detective skills in the first five minutes, now would we. We are, after all, going to be at sea for at least a week."

Sherlock groaned. "I'm sure I don't need to elaborate on how unacceptable I find the length of this journey, Miss Adler."

"Irene, please," she said.

Sherlock ignored her. "You have information I want, and I have the skills you need, and I'd rather not waste a lot of time with trivial nonsense that's only meant to distract me from getting what I really want from you."

The ship was moving swiftly in the waters now, heading straight out to open sea, and it was at this moment that John felt his stomach lurch right up into his throat. His face went quite green, his forehead beading with sweat, his hands trembling.

"Damn," he croaked out as he stumbled for the railing.

"Seasick," Irene said mildly, not rising from her sofa.

Sherlock was instantly at John's side, taking his pulse, touching his forehead with the tips of his fingers, and then checking his pupils. "He's going to need a toilet, at least."

"Why don't you put your boy to bed," Irene said. "Down the stairs, third door on your left. You'll find it quite comfortable and roomy, and each room has it's own private loo."

Sherlock slung an arm around John's waist and carefully escorted him to the aforementioned room. It was, indeed, large in size, one massive bed near the round window, the view only partially obstructed by the bottom of a lifeboat.

There was also a small loo the size of a broom cupboard, but it was wide enough for John to stumble in, close the door, and retch violently for several minutes. Sherlock waited patiently, his eyes trained out the window for any sign of anything suspicious.

John eventually emerged, his skin now pale instead of green. He was still sweating, however, and shaking a bit, and his eyes were drooping low. "Sherlock, this is not seasickness. I've never been seasick a day in my life."

"I'm aware," Sherlock said. John collapsed onto the bed, face down, and groaned. Sherlock sat beside him and took his pulse once more. "Judging based on your pulse, the tone of your skin, your specific symptoms and the size of your pupils, I'd say a rather quick acting bacteria has been introduced into your body, which should run its course within twenty-four hours. I'd say the best thing you can do is sleep." Sherlock reached into his pocket and retrieved the bottle of opiates he was carrying with him. "These will help, once you can gain control of your urge to vomit."

"Fantastic," John muttered into the pillow. "What are the odds that this will kill me?"

"Oh the risk is so low I'm not even going to bother with a calculation," Sherlock said, waving his hand in the air. "I'm going to attend to Miss Adler now, but don't hesitate to shout if you need anything."

John merely groaned his protest, but found he didn't have an ounce of energy to stop Sherlock's exit. Sherlock hit the light switch, sending the room into almost total blackness, and shut the door behind him.

Irene was still waiting on the sofa, and patted the seat next to her when Sherlock approached. Sherlock resumed his original seat, but instead of picking up his wine, he picked up John's empty glass. "Clever of you," he said, smelling the inside. "Anyone with a taste for wine would have taken a small sip and known something was off."

"He seems more the scotch man to me," she said with a shrug.

"He's quite ill."

"He'll be over it in the morning," she said with a smile. "It seemed it was the only way I was going to have any time alone with you." Irene grabbed the bottle of wine, topped off her glass and then Sherlock's. She set the bottle down and reached into her blouse to produce a pack of cigarettes. "Join me?"

"John would kill me," Sherlock said, but took the offered cigarette, and the light she produced from the same place. He blew out a long wave of smoke and then hummed a little in satisfaction. "You could have simply asked for my time."

"What's the fun in that?" she said and sat next to him, twisting her body so she was facing him, her crooked legs on the sofa not quite touching his, but close. "What better way to assure he'll be.. otherwise occupied... for the rest of the night."

Sherlock didn't answer her. He was staring at her, taking it all in. Her hair was dyed, indicating that she had been using this disguise for some time. She had slight tan lines around her eyes, suggesting she spent most of her time outdoors with sunglasses on. Her nails were trimmed short, but they were well manicured, suggesting that whatever she was up to, she wasn't getting her hands dirty, both literally and figuratively. She had gained a bit of weight, which Sherlock suspected was for her disguise alone, and he then noted that her attempt to make her breasts appear larger was merely for his benefit alone, deduced by the way she had unbuttoned the top button only after John had retired to the bedroom.

"You could have joined me," Irene said after some silence. "Instead of hiding out in your flat, like a refugee. You could have easily found me."

"I didn't want to find you," Sherlock answered honestly.

"That stings."

"No it doesn't," he bit back.

"I don't like being rejected."

"Yes, you do," Sherlock said. "You love it. So many men fall to your knees without any effort that you crave a man who makes you work for it."

"Is that what this is? Are you making me work for it?" she purred.

Sherlock drank his wine a bit, staring at her, but saying nothing.

"Oh, I haven't drugged you," she said impatiently.

"I am well aware. That was, in fact, a one time accomplishment, Miss Adler, one that will never be repeated."

"Is that a challenge?"

"It's a fact," Sherlock stated. "Why is it so important to you that I'm sexually attracted to you?"

"Who says it's important?" Irene complained. The pair had now finished off the bottle of wine and she cracked open a second.

"Your breast enhancing bra, for one, along with the subtle way you apply your make-up so it looks as though you've done nothing to your face, entirely different style of face paint than you usually use. Your incessant manner of texting shows you're desperate for attention, and the fact that you held on to one detail, that you're the only person I never responded to, shows you can't seem to let it go. The way you're sitting, closed legs but the rest of you inviting, suggests that you want me to try and make your entire body accessible to me, by my hand, not yours, and the fact that every time I reject you, your throat tightens and if you were any other woman, you would cry."

"I'm not any other woman," Irene said in a very neutral tone.

"Which is the only reason I'm here," Sherlock said.

"You maintain you do not want me, Mr Holmes?"

"I maintain that sex is of no interest to me, Miss Adler," Sherlock replied.

"In other words, what you want doesn't factor in."

"What I want never enters into any decision I make. What I want is of no consequence."

"What if I told you that I would give you all of the information you're here for, for a single kiss," she said. She had moved so close to him that her lips were nearly touching his ear.

Sherlock, face straight, eyes staring ahead, smiled. "I would call you a liar. You're clever, Miss Adler, and you want things from me that I have never given to another person, but you are not stupid."

Irene moved back and crossed her arms over her chest. "I'll have you, one day."

"Perhaps," Sherlock said.

They fell into a silence for a while, drinking another two bottles of wine. Irene offered food which Sherlock declined. Twice he rose to check on John, only to find him face down, groaning, but sleeping. The room smelled faintly of vomit, something Sherlock found unpleasant but not intolerable.

"He's going to live, you know," Irene said. She had a small tray of sliced apples brought out, and she was eating one. "You check on him as though he were terminal."

Sherlock put his hands into his pockets after adjusting his long coat tighter around his body. He once again looked out to sea, but there was nothing to indicate where they were anymore. The sky was cloudy, though the wind was calm. Sherlock suspected a storm or two in the very near future, but nothing that alarmed him.

He was tired, which wasn't something he was very often. Irene was a weary woman, despite being one of the only women Sherlock could tolerate to be around, and while he enjoyed being forced to live on his toes every second she was nearby, he was growing weary.

"Sherlock," she said softly. They were both quite drunk now, very full and very drunk. She put her arm on his, and he didn't pull away.

"Miss Adler."

"What am I to you?"

"The Woman," he replied.

She laughed and shook her head. "Is that all?"

Sherlock turned to her and looked her in the eyes. "_The_ Woman, Miss Adler. Not The Woman."

"What does that mean?" she asked. Her brows were knitted and behind her calculating face, lie the curiosity of a child.

"I don't know," Sherlock confessed.

"And John? What is he?"

"I won't talk about him with you," Sherlock snapped.

Her face instantly closed off and she moved in, standing directly in front of him, pressing him back against the railing. "Tell me, Mr Holmes, will you answer an honest question for me?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. He wasn't alarmed, but he was curious. His heart sped up, just slightly, prepared for The Chase, if need be, mental or physical.

Irene moved her face in close to him, standing on the very tips of her toes so that their heights were more matched than before. He could feel her breath on his face when she spoke, and with the gentle rocking of the boat, her lips brushed against his skin twice.

"Have you ever been kissed?"

Sherlock frowned. He honestly hadn't been expecting that question, and it threw him off for a moment. He blinked and then looked down at her. "No," he finally answered.

"You and John haven't bothered to even try it out?"she asked with a wicked grin.

"John isn't gay," Sherlock said with a shrug.

"John is in love with you, Holmes," Irene said. "Obviously you know this."

"John is John," Sherlock said. "He's complicated, he likes women. He's smarter than he gives himself credit for, and braver. One day his heart will be the death of him, and I suspect myself as well. But he's not gay."

"Gay, straight, sex... none of that really factors into actual love, Sherlock," Irene said. She put her hands inside Sherlock's coat and gently touched his sides. "Sex is sex. Sex is raw, it's passion, it's control, dominance, release. So many men and women are so driven, so distracted by their libido. You'd be surprised what they will do for that little bit of release, that little death..." she trailed off, kissing the underside of his chin.

"Sex," Sherlock said, staring down at her, unmoving as though paralyzed, "is a waste."

"How would you know?" she challenged with a smile. "You've never even been kissed."

"I don't need to experience something to know how pointless it is," Sherlock retorted.

"Shall we see, then? Shall we see?" She rose on her toes and as she moved in to kiss him, Sherlocks' head swam.

"You... you've drugged me," he gasped. He pushed her off, his hands flying to his face. His knees started to buckle and he stumbled onto the sofa. "How... how could you have manged..." he gasped.

Irene looked around, absolutely alarmed. "I haven't done a thing to you, Sherlock!" she cried. "What's going on?"

"My stomach is churning, my mind racing, heart pounding. I can't concentrate, my face is alternately burning and freezing. What have you given me?"

Irene stared at him for the longest time, and then threw her head back and laughed. "You stupid sod. You silly, stupid sod."

Sherlock suddenly snapped out of it, staring at her hard, and then realized all of his symptoms were gone. "What's going on? What have you done?"

"You, Mr Holmes, are having what I believe they all, a panic attack."

Sherlock's cheeks pinked. "Don't be absurd. A mind as well trained as mine would never be subject to something so... so... amateur!"

"Amateur?" Irene crowed and suddenly straddled him on the sofa, pushing his head back, holding his chin with her hands, lightly but with the threat of force. "You're no expert, Sherlock Holmes, not in my world. Just the idea of physical contact scares you."

"Nothing scares me, nothing if I'm not in an altered state," he said, not resisting her touch.

"Liar," she whispered. "When men had a gun to your precious Johnny boy's head, you were... _petrified_."

Sherlock swallowed and didn't acknowledge her absolute truth.

"Kiss me, Sherlock Holmes. Kiss me, and drive your husband mad with jealousy."

Sherlock stared at her, lips pressed together, saying nothing, his expression giving nothing away.

"Don't you want to? Don't you want to see if it will give you the thrill, the jolt, the chase."

Sherlock reached up slowly and removed her hand from his face. He pressed her arm down to her side, using force, but not enough to hurt her. He adjusted his position so that while she was still atop him, he is face was now bent over hers.

"Is that a challenge?"

"Yes," she breathed.

Sherlock closed his eyes and then closed his mouth over hers. It was over in a flash, in a clash of teeth and tongue, her hands grasping at the front of his shirt so violently she pulled off three buttons. She was strong and dominant, and didn't want the kiss to be over, but she didn't fight Sherlock who broke it off.

"Are you satisfied?" Sherlock asked after a moment. To any layman, he would have seem composed, unaffected, but Irene could hear the slight hitch of breath, she could see the subtle pulsing of the vein in his neck against his white skin.

"Are you? Or would you like more? John will be out for hours, Sherlock. Hours."

Sherlock stared down at her hands which were still twisted in the front of his deep purple shirt, and with slow, deliberate movements, he detached her from him. Doing his best to move carefully, doing what he could to ease the rejection, Sherlock stood and walked to the balcony, straightening his clothing out.

Irene followed him, looking somewhat disappointed, but amused. "So it does work?"

"What works?" Sherlock asked. His eyes followed hers down to the bulge in his trousers and he gave an embarrassed laugh. "You thought it wouldn't."

"I had wondered. Have you ever used it before?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a grin and looked out onto the black waters. "I was a teenaged boy once, Miss Adler, despite my inhuman mannerisms. I found it... useful back then, while my mind wasn't trained to overcome the crashing waves of teenaged hormones."

"Are you really a virgin?"

"Does it matter?"

"I'm a Dominatrix, Sherlock. I have brutal, incredible sex as my choice profession. It matters to me."

"You know the answer already, Miss Adler, and while I realize that I may seem the ultimate challenge to you, it's a challenge you're going to lose."

"You might like it," she said. She lit two cigarettes and handed Sherlock one.

"Of that I have no doubt, believe me, but my answer will always remain no."

Irene smoked her cigarette about halfway down before tossing the rest into the waters. "In that case, it's time for me to retire. I'll let you compose yourself before you return to John. Tomorrow morning we'll talk." Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but Irene answered him before he could get a word out, "I swear John will have nothing left to fear from me. I assure you. Goodnight."

She walked down the stairs, her hair now hanging down, swinging from side to side as she disappeared into the hull. Sherlock closed his eyes and finished off his cigarette. He felt a mixture of thrill and regret just now, and anger, because she had figured something out that even Moriarty had gotten wrong.

Sherlock's mind, his credibility, his ability to solve crime and the adoration he received from it... he loved it. But that was not his heart. Moriarty believed that, and while he knew that Sherlock would die to save his friends, he believed he would die out of pride. What Moriarty didn't know, what Irene did, was that John was Sherlock's heart. John was. And though he had lived without John for so many years, it would be impossible to do so now.

~pqpqpq~

When John woke in the morning, he was aching from head to toe. The sun was starting to rise, the light filtering in from the small, thick paned window, piercing his eyes. He had retched so much the night before that every muscle in his body was strained.

He was in the bed, half dressed, and he wasn't alone. Sherlock was there, in the bed with him, wearing his usual striped pajamas, one bare foot hooked around John's ankle. Sherlock was sleeping with his head thrown back, his mouth open, snoring loudly and occasionally muttering.

This was the first time John had seen Sherlock asleep, save for the time he was carried back to the flat drugged and muttering nonsense. He stared at the curly haired man for the longest time, confused by the events leading up to this moment, angry and tired by everything he was feeling, and everything everyone else was implying.

Love. In love. John was not gay, despite the constant accusations of those who knew him and Sherlock. John liked women. No, John loved women. John loved the feel of a soft, breast in his hands, the quiet moans, the warm bodies pressed against his. John enjoyed every moment of that, he really did.

And yet... yet he was confused. He was confused because every time he thought about leaving Baker Street, taking a wife, having kids, moving on with his life, he felt panicked. At first he told himself it was because he knew Sherlock wouldn't get on without him. Sherlock was a madman, mind of a genius and he let the world consume him. Without taking care, he would become Moriarty. Sherlock was dangerous when he was bored, and he was unattached to humanity. He called himself a sociopath, not because he was one, but because it was the only way people could possibly understand his detachment.

It wasn't true though, John knew deep down. John knew that while the fear of Sherlock completely losing all control on his sanity was part of it, there was more. It wasn't just about what Sherlock would do, it was about living without him. As hard as John tried, the idea of a wife, of a family, of a life outside of Sherlock Holmes sounded rubbish. It sounded unimaginable and frankly the idea scared John.

He'd seen what would become of him if Sherlock ever left, and John didn't know what road he'd been on before he found out Sherlock was still alive. He didn't really even want to think about it, because honestly he was pretty sure that road was leading toward the barrel of a gun in his mouth, and suicide wasn't something he wanted to admit he would ever consider.

But was it love? Could this man love? Could John love Sherlock? He was irritated and confused, but now was really not the time for exploring such matters. John carefully extracted his ankle from Sherlock's hooked foot and padded to the loo to relieve himself.

He was pleased to find that his stomach had stopped rolling violently, and he could stand without the room spinning violently around him. There was a small sink to the side of the loo and he washed up, splashing a bit of water on his face.

On his return trip to the bed, he nearly got tangled in Sherlock's pile of clothes, and he picked them up He tossed the trousers on a chair, but before he tossed the shirt, his nose was flooded by an intense smell of cigarette smoke.

John groaned and shook out the shirt. It was then he noticed that three buttons from the middle of the shirt were missing. John frowned and looked over at Sherlock who was now awake, staring at him with those icy eyes.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked.

John dropped the shirt on the chair with the trousers and scratched the back of his head. "Much, actually. I'm surprised."

"Don't be, it was expected. The bacteria ran a course through your body, was flushed out through vomit and excrement and although you're probably going to feel sore and exhausted for the rest of the day, you can rest assured your system is returning to normal."

"Thanks for that," John grumbled. He pulled out his suitcase from the closet and started rummaging around for clothes and soap. "You said you packed for me, Sherlock."

"I did," Sherlock said.

"All I see in here are socks, pants, one pair of jeans and my tuxedo shirt."

Sherlock shrugged. "It seemed really the only appropriate things you owned John. We're heading off to a new country, you didn't expect me to pack your sweater vests and Christmas jumpers, did you?"

"I … what?" John exclaimed. "What am I supposed to wear, then? Shall I just go naked? Or how about just a nice pair of socks and my pants."

"Calm down, we can obtain clothing for you once we dock," Sherlock said, sounding unconcerned.

"I smell like vomit, Sherlock," John all-but shouted. "I slept in the clothes I was sick in, and you want me to not be concerned."

Sherlock rose from the bed, did a few stretches, and then grabbed his blue dressing gown from the cupboard. "I'll go and check with Irene to see if perhaps some of the crew have a shirt you can borrow. I packed plenty of toiletries, however, so feel free to shower. You are smelling a bit foul." With that, Sherlock was gone, leaving a red-faced John huffing over his flatmate's lack of care.

Irritated, John still managed to gather up a couple of towels, soap and found the shower to be rather posh, warm and enjoyable. The walls were all granite and the water fell like a heavy, soaking rain. John scrubbed until he felt the smells of sick and sweat were long gone.

Stepping out, he brushed his teeth, combed his hair straight, the way he liked it, and returned to the room where he found a stack of clothing on the bed. They were his size, but most definitely not his style. His jeans were laid out from his case, but the array of shirts were button up, collared, brightly colored and light.

Being a military man, John preferred material with a heavier weight, more fitting, soft, earth tones that didn't distract from everything else around him. But, he realized with a sigh, he had no other choice.

He chose a light blue, the least offensive of the lot, dressed, and tried not to feel awkward about wearing another bloke's shirt. He toed on his shoes and found his way up to the deck where Sherlock, clad in a pinkish shirt, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses on, sat next to Irene who was now sporting rather ruby colored hair, wearing a pale yellow dress, her pale legs toned, her feet bare.

"Good morning, how are you feeling?" She asked, gesturing for John to have a seat.

"Better, thank you," John said as he sat down next to Sherlock.

"Sherlock assures me you aren't angry about last night," Irene said with a smile. "You understand, I'm sure."

"Angry... I..." John froze and then his mind went right to the missing buttons and the smoky shirt. "Oh right. The er... you two... yes no, fine, it's all fine. What you two do in the bedroom is none of my business." John's face was flushed and he felt an odd pang of what could be described as burning jealousy, flood through his stomach.

Irene laughed and Sherlock looked amused. "I'm not talking about sex, Dr Watson, though if that's what Sherlock said last night, I'd hate to have to deny it."

"What are you talking about, then?"

"Drugging your drink," Irene replied, waving her hand. "I'll admit it was done so I could obtain said sex from Sherlock, but alas, I was denied again."

"You drugged my drink?" John asked, his eyes wide, outraged. "You... _drugged_... my drink?"

"It was harmless, I promise you, simple bacteria, flushed through the system in a jiffy," Irene said. "You said he held no hard feelings, Sherlock," she scolded.

Sherlock's eyebrows raised from behind the dark glasses. "Of course I did, I never said I had told him about it, though."

"Damn," John swore, crossing his arms angrily. "Why is it I'm always the one being drugged or experimented on, or left in some ridiculous situation that leads to me having a gun pressed to my head?"

"Luck, I suppose," Sherlock said, looking quite pleased with himself.

Irene smiled and handed over a plate of fruit and small buttered toasts to John. "I'm not hungry," John snapped.

"Of course you are, John," Sherlock said. For good measure, Sherlock plucked one of the cut strawberries from the plate and ate it. "Quite safe, I assure you."

John glared at Irene, but his stomach wouldn't allow him to deny the breakfast any longer. He filled his own plate with food and ate, grateful for the coffee that came along with it, as paranoid as he might feel.

"I trust you both slept well," Irene said after some time.

Sherlock, who was swallowing coffee as though he needed it to live, shrugged and said, "It was passable, though I'll be grateful to be off this ship. I don't like being confined, as John knows all too well."

John snorted with agreement but didn't say anything as he polished off the last of the toast. Irene looked at the pair and shook her head. "Look at you two, so domestic. It's touching, it really is."

"When are we going to get down to business?" Sherlock demanded.

"Sometime this afternoon," Irene said. "I'm waiting on an email from a contact in Mexico. Once that email arrives I'll have all the information you should need to track down this thief and retrieve what they took."

"You won't even divulge the item?" John asked.

"Items," Irene corrected. "They took a safe, Dr Watson, a very important safe, from my home, and I want it back."

"I take it that this safe contains more than just sentimental items," Sherlock said crossly, "despite how you presented your loss to me."

"Depends on how you view sentiment," Irene said and then laughed. "From your eyes, you would be correct, though your sentiment could hardly be contained in a box, now could it?" She eyed John and then winked. "I'll go over a list of the items later on, I promise."

Sherlock heaved a sigh and stood up. "If that is all, I will see you this afternoon." With that, he stalked off down the stairs.

"Where's he going?" Irene said.

John paused a moment, and then heard the shrill sounds of the violin. He grinned at the sound, realizing he had missed it all this time. "He's gone off to think," John replied.

"If I had a fraction of what you two have, I might give up this silly life of dominating the world," Irene said in a quiet voice.

"No you wouldn't," John said, smiling and shaking his head. "We both know that you mean more to him than anyone ever has, in a way no one ever will. Yet here we are, you with the information, Sherlock with his brain just ready to dissolve any mystery put before him. Not quite sure what I'm doing here, though, to be honest with you."

"Oh dear, John, you don't really believe that, do you?" Irene asked. She rose and knelt beside him, her hand on his arm. "Only a fool would say such a thing and mean it, and we both know you're no fool, John Watson."

John swallowed thickly and glanced back down the hall. The violin music was still trilling up to the deck, softer but no less powerful. "Listen, Irene, I'm not here to stand in anyone's way."

"The only person in Sherlock's way is himself, at least in the way of his own cock," she said. She looked John in the eye and then without warning, leaned in and kissed him, hard and fast and rough. "Oooh yes, I see what he sees in you, too." She touched his cheek and smiled. "I've got both of you on my lips now, haven't I? If we die today, I can't say this wasn't all a fantastic success."

As John sat in stunned silence, Irene stood up and disappeared down into the hull. It took John a bit to recover, more coffee and several more pieces of the fruit. Eventually he made his way back down and found Sherlock in a parlor-like room just a few doors down from theirs. The room was expansive, despite the boat seeming small, and the only thing that bothered John was how low the roof sat.

Sherlock was staring at him when he walked in, and he crossed his long arms tightly over his chest. "How was it?"

"How was what?" John grumbled.

"The kiss? Was it how you imagined it?"

"Did she tell you?" John demanded.

Sherlock snorted. "The lipstick on your mouth told me, John. So, how was it?"

"How was yours?" John retorted. Sherlock's question made him feel guilty, uneasy and ashamed. He wiped furiously at his mouth with the sleeve of the shirt that wasn't his.

"It was new," Sherlock said. "It was desperate, angry and lonely. It was wanting, and shallow, despite a desire for deeper feelings."

John, face still red, plopped down into a chair next to a window and looked out. Dark clouds were starting to roll in, and he could see the sea starting to grow more choppy, sloshing against the side of the boat. "Did you like it?"

"Of course I liked it, didn't you?" Sherlock said, as though John had asked the stupidest question of all. "She's skilled, her profession, she's perfected the act of kissing, something she doesn't use often on clients because it's far too intimate a gesture for a paid service. But she's good, she knows it, and she's desperate."

"You said that twice, her being desperate. Desperate for what?"

"A heart," Sherlock said. Sherlock sat across from John, his violin hanging loosely from his fingers. His elbows rested on his knees and it took him a moment to acquire John's gaze.

"What does that even mean, a heart?" John asked irritably.

"Describe sex, John."

John flushed and stammered. "I beg your pardon?"

"Sex, John. Describe it. You've had plenty, I know. Tell me what it is that creates such a desire for release that it can be used as a weapon. Why do you crave it?"

"I'm not going to talk dirty to you in the hull of a Dominatrix's yacht," John complained.

"This isn't her yacht. This yacht belongs to your Canadian cousin, Mary," Sherlock said impatiently. "I'm not asking you to chat me up like a street walker, John. I'm asking you to describe what it feels like. Last night she told me men and women beg to give her information, just so she'll give them sexual release. I've been accused of not understanding love, or the matters of the heart, but that's not correct. I understand those exactly. What I don't understand is sex."

"Jesus, Sherlock, I don't know. I mean, it's... it's sex. Are you telling me you've never had an orgasm before?"

"No," Sherlock said. "I've had an orgasm, I know perfectly well what they feel like." Sherlock looked at John's raised brow, rolled his eyes and sat back in the chair. "Orgasm, the body's release of seminal fluids, John. I'm not a robot, I've... you know... with myself."

John blushed furiously and looked away from his friend. "Right well er, sex is pretty much just like that. It's the build and the climax."

"Knocking one off, as they call it these days, is not sex. It doesn't measure up to sex," Sherlock said. "Grabbing yourself and yanking, there's no intimacy and that's what I'm struggling to understand. Intimacy."

John floundered, desperate to be rid of this topic. He really hated Irene Adler in this moment. He felt like he could have gone his whole life not talking to Sherlock about sex. He reasoned it must have been what his mum and dad went through when he was a child, demanding to know what the fuss was about.

"What did the er... your um... orgasm, feel like to you?" John asked, trying anything to get out of having to describe sex to this man.

"Like a sneeze, honestly," Sherlock said.

John's eyes widened. "Like a sneeze? I think you weren't doing it right."

"Well there was obviously more physical pleasure involved," he said irritably. He put his violin on the nearby table, his bow resting next to it, and he pressed his palms together, touching his bottom lip. There was pressure, a build, and a rather explosive ending, with a bit of mess. So yes, a sneeze is probably the most accurate way to describe it."

"Sodding hell, you're right," John said, his eyes wide. Sherlock was right, in the most detached way, an orgasm was like a sneeze. "I'm never going to be able to properly get off again."

Sherlock and John locked eyes and then both men chuckled. "I realize this is making you uncomfortable, and I don't mean it. You see, I need to understand the draw of intimacy that Irene uses to hold over people. She's gotten loads of information, so much information that it's difficult for a normal person to comprehend. And she's gotten this all through, sex. Don't you see, it's a weapon, one I haven't mastered, one I don't know that I can, though if you tell anyone I said that I will deny it. And then I will hurt you."

John threw up his hands in surrender. "Lips shut."

"I'm asking for science, John, for a basic understanding of something I have yet to experience."

"I don't know if I can answer that for you," John acquiesced, doing his best to try and explain. "She's a dominatrix, and that's something I don't have any experience with, either. She spends her time with someone less intimate and more domineering. She controls people, she ties them up, she beats them, she makes them beg. She sets their libido on fire and tortures them before giving them release."

Sherlock was staring at John, his face blank, his eyes intense. "So it's the power. The power she holds over them. She controls whether or not they have this..."

"Sneeze," John offered.

"And only after they show her, through word, through action, that she has all the power, they give in. People want to be controlled, John. They want to be dominated. They can't be, not in every day life, so they seek her out. With her power, they feel like she's safe, and that's how she wins."

"Er, right," John said, just grateful that he didn't have to do a one-sided sex swapping story with his virgin flatmate who'd only been kissed for the first time last night.

"Thank you, John. You've been most helpful," Sherlock said. He rose, picked up his violin once more, and walked to the window.

John, feeling a bit daring still seeing as they were at sea, and running away from home for who knows how long, approached his friend. "She kissed me, you know."

Sherlock turned to John, frowning. "Sorry?"

"Irene," John clarified, "she kissed me. I didn't you know... go after her."

"I know," Sherlock said. "What does it matter."

"I just didn't want you to think that I was, you know, interested or anything. She's not... I mean, she's off limits."

"I'm not quite understanding what you're getting at, John," Sherlock said, dropping the instrument to his side.

"I'm not going to make a pass at her," John blurted out, flustered that Sherlock just wasn't getting it. "She's your, you know, maybe not girlfriend, but she's your whatever. Your Woman. She kissed me to prove a point and I wanted you to know it's not going to happen again."

"She's a prostitute," Sherlock said, raising the instrument again, letting out a small breath of relief now that he understood his friend. "We have plenty of money on this boat. If you feel the need for sexual intercourse, by all means, John, have at her. She's absolutely clean, and probably quite fantastic."

"Never mind," John muttered, and he turned to walk out of the room.

Sherlock watched him go, but before he made it all the way out, he called to him. John came back and Sherlock pulled him very close, speaking almost directly into his ear. "She's not my anything, John. She's fascinating, yes. She beat me at my game, and for that she remains a person of interest in my life, But understand me, John, because this is very important. She doesn't matter to me, but she doesn't realize that yet, and when she does finally figure that out, I have no more cards. Anything could happen and now is not the time to show my hand. Do you understand?"

John nodded, staring at Sherlock with wide eyes. Sherlock gave him a slow nod, and then a quick wink before he turned away, raising the violin to his chin and began to play a rather uppity tune, filling the room with the rich sound. John shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. It was all starting to make sense, more in that insane way that things made sense in Sherlock's world, but John had lived it for so long that it no longer felt so mad.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N- My apologies for not updating this weekend, work and another deadline kicked me in the butt and took away from the fic. I wanted to let you know that this chapter contains mentions of drugs, drug use, and a fairly non graphic sexual situation between Sherlock and Irene (don't worry I slipped in some John/Sherlock as much as I realistically could). But I wanted to pre-warn so no one would be taken by surprise. I'm going to say there will be about two more chapters after this, MAYBE three, but doubtful. I really am rubbish with action. My hubby says I've perfected dialogue as a writer, so I'm trying to work on my crap detail and action scenes. **

**Anyway, big love to my reviewers. I don't usually respond to reviewers, I figure if you have questions you are welcome to PM me and I'm happy to answer any and every. Hope you enjoy this chapter, I do apologize for the cliff-hanger, I almost never write those, and it was unintentional, it just sort of worked out that way. Expect an update tomorrow. Lots of love to you all.**

~pqpqpqpq~

A storm rolled in, and for safety, John and Sherlock sat in their cabin while the crew took care of manning the seas. The yacht, being one of rather high quality and technology, navigated through the thrashing waves and wind with some ease.

Sherlock, for his part, stayed glued to the porthole window, staring out, his face drawn and stark. John sat on the bed, laptop on his lap, clicking away on the keys with some fury.

"What are you writing?" Sherlock asked after quite a stretch of silence.

"Journal entry," John replied. He stopped typing and looked up at his friend. "Possibly a blog in the future, once I'm allowed to speak of all these insane events, but for now, just a journal entry."

Sherlock glanced over at John, his expression unreadable, as usual, and then back out the window. "You may never be able to tell this story, John."

"Regardless, I need to get it all out. Everything's stuck up in my head and I'm starting to feel a bit mad. We've been on this boat now nearly twenty-four hours, I've been drugged, you've been snogged, you're smoking again, I've taken some of your drugs, Irene is MIA, we're in the middle of a storm that may very well sink us, and we have no idea where we're heading and why."

Sherlock chuckled, and looked over at John. "When did you take my drugs?"

"I popped a pill about two hours ago, when Irene told us for our safety we needed to be locked up here... you know... underneath the boat. The last place we'd want to be if we go down." John was chuckling along with Sherlock a bit, shaking his head out of frustration and embarrassment. "I hope you don't plan on telling anyone that."

"About the pill? Not a word," he said with a slight smirk. "For the record, we won't be going down. This yacht was built strategically to handle the storms on the Atlantic. While it's not unsinkable, it's quite safe."

"So why haven't you left that window?" John demanded.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, and then beckoned John over. "We're being followed."

John's face paled. "Sorry? Did you say followed? There hasn't been a soul out here on the sea that we've come across."

"We're being followed under it, not on top. It's more difficult to see in the storm, but once last night, and twice during breakfast I saw a break in the water, too far off to be from this boat. Irene is clearly being tracked, but I'm not sure who it is just yet. I need that information from her before I can even begin a deduction."

"Damn," John said. "What does that mean, exactly, Sherlock?"

"It means that my cover is blown, but I think for the moment my identity is safe. The person following her doesn't have any interest in showing themselves, so likely it's out of pure observation. If they wanted to out my secret, they would have done so by now and the boat would have long since been taken over."

"Do you have any idea where we're going?"

"By my deductions, I'm going to say Mexico, and I'll confirm that this evening once Irene emerges. She has a fear of the sea, just so you know, an absolute phobia, so until this storm dies down, we won't see her."

John quirked an eyebrow. "A phobia of the sea?"

Both men shared a quiet laugh, and then John went back to the bed. "So no immediate danger, the host of this yacht with a sea phobia, and a possible destination of Mexico. Brilliant."

"I hear the tequila is amazing," Sherlock said with a smirk.

John rolled his eyes and went back to writing, and didn't question Sherlock about his position by the window again.

The storm raged on for the next two days, tossing the yacht this way and that. Sherlock and John ventured from their rooms for meals, but Irene's private suite was empty of her presence, and neither men bothered to do a thorough investigation of the ship to find her whereabouts.

They were bored, the two men, and John knew that if he were bored, Sherlock was probably dangerously so. Sherlock, however, busied himself by hacking into the yacht's computer system through John's laptop and was able to secure their destination, Miami, Florida.

"It looks as though we have tickets to Cabo, Mexico waiting for Mary Watson, John Watson and Henry Blacksmith," Sherlock said, turning the laptop towards John.

"I sincerely hope she has all of the appropriate paperwork to go along with this plan of hers," John mumbled, pacing the floor of the lounge.

"Don't be stupid, John," Sherlock snapped. "The real question is, what is in Cabo, Mexico. When I left Irene, she was in Canada under the pseudonym Sarah Smith." Sherlock started typing furiously, and after about ten minutes, stood up, pointing at the laptop with glee. "Aha!"

"What?" John said, startled by his friend's outburst.

"Sarah Smith is married to Itai El-Baz!"

John frowned. "El-Baz, why does that name sound so familiar?"

"Itai El-Baz was one of the Israeli government's top developers in cyber warfare. He defected to Canada in 2010 where he was given asylum. Last year it says he married Sarah Smith and six months after their wedding he was found dead in his pool."

"Murder?"

"The death was ruled an accident," Sherlock said slowly, reading over the page on the laptop screen. "Drugs were found in the body, recreational drugs, which led to an accidental drowning. It's obviously a cover-up."

"Do you think Irene murdered him?"

"If I wanted my husband murdered," came a voice from the doorway, "I wouldn't be so crass as to stage an overdose and drowning. I have some class, you realize."

Both men turned to see Irene standing in the doorway, looking quite composed, her hair put back in a neat bun, wearing a form-fitting black dress and white knitted shawl.

"Was this information you were going to divulge?" Sherlock asked as Irene walked into the room and took a seat across from him at the little table.

"This is information I expected you to have already," Irene said with a shrug. She pulled out a cigarette and lit it. She offered one to Sherlock, who looked over at John, and then shook his head. "I confess, I'm a bit hurt that you didn't keep tabs on me, Sherlock."

"It wasn't worth my time," Sherlock said. "All of this information is easy enough to obtain if and when you needed me."

"Does your husband's murder have anything to do with the reason you called Sherlock in?" John asked from his chair across the room.

Irene studied him for a moment, and then looked back at Sherlock. "My husband, as you read, was one of the top men in Israel dealing in cyber warfare. Inside the safe, there is a flashdrive which contains some very sensitive information."

"How sensitive?" Sherlock asked.

"Extremely," Irene replied. She blew a long stream of smoke out, and then smiled.

"How do you know that the person who took your safe doesn't already have the information?" John asked.

"Oh believe me, we would all know," Irene said. "That safe is virtually uncrackable. I expect the person who has it has called in every expert he knows to get it open. What he will have, should he succeed, is possibly the world's greatest weapon."

"A virus," Sherlock said, sitting back and touching his pressed palms to his lips. "But not just any virus, is it? Your husband was a mastermind, Miss Adler. Your husband specialized in making cyber weapons that could attack specific government systems and take them down, or control them, the bearer of the virus had total control. So what, Miss Adler, did this particular virus do?"

She grinned. "Now that would be showing my hand, wouldn't it?"

John looked at Sherlock sharply, but Sherlock's eyes didn't move from Irene's face. "I think I'll have that cigarette now, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," Irene said. She removed one from her pack and passed it over.

"Sherlock," John said in a warning tone.

"Why not head off to bed, John," Sherlock said, not answering him.

"I don't think that's a very good idea," John said, seeing the danger on both Sherlock and Irene's faces. "I think I should-"

"Bed, John. Your laptop," he said and pushed it to the edge of the table, "so you can continue searching for more information."

Angry and red, John snapped the laptop up from the table and stood there, waiting for one of them too look at him.

Neither Sherlock nor Irene bothered to, though Sherlock said, "Sleep well, John. Please don't wait up." Sherlock lit the cigarette and watched out of the corner of his eye as John left the room.

"Alone at last," Irene said with a slight smile.

"Perhaps the rest of our conversation might be better suited to your private quarters?" Sherlock suggested as he took a slow drag from the cigarette.

Irene watched Sherlock for a moment and then stood up. "Right this way." She led him out of the room, down another set of stairs to a large, roomy room with a low ceiling and low lighting. They were in the very belly of the yacht, he could hear the water rushing beneath the steel just under his feet, and the air down here, despite the circulation system, was damp and muggy.

"Do you mind if I slip into something more comfortable?" she asked.

"By all means," Sherlock said. He sat down in a chair near the plush, heavily blanketed bed, crossed one leg over his knee and watched her as she dropped the dress down to the floor. He continued to puff on the cigarette and was utterly unsurprised by the sudden, weighty feeling that started to course through his limbs.

His head began to lighten, his face growing numb, a feeling he hadn't had since he was a teen, shoving a needle into his arm and plunging heroine into his veins. The cigarette was drugged, and not lightly. Sherlock knew, and was prepared for it.

Irene had him right where she wanted him, and Sherlock needed to get the odds into his favor once more. Sex, he knew, was Irene's ultimate weapon. Sex with him, lording over him, taking away something she thought was so precious, something he could never get back.

Sherlock finished the cigarette and let his head roll back, his eyes closed, and he breathed in deeply. The rush was first, the rush, the feeling of detachment, as though he were floating just above the chair he was sitting in.

He barely felt her hands on him as she straddled him, pulling the buttons apart on his shirt, kissing his neck. He groaned slightly and lifted his head. "What if I still told you no," he asked her, the sound of his own voice strange to him.

Her face hovered just over his and she grinned. "I suppose I would have to stop. But you don't really want that, do you?" she asked, her hand exploring what was beneath his trousers. "Do you, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock said nothing as she slowly pulled his shirt off and kissed his mouth. The drugs had taken full effect now, and though his mind knew what to expect, his mind was losing its grip on itself and he was falling. He didn't remember losing his clothes, or making it to the bed. He didn't remember when she brought out the riding crop or the bindings for his hands.

He would always, however, remember the feel of her on him, of him inside of her, and most of all, the look of absolute triumph on her face when he cried out, unable to help himself. She let him cling to her as his orgasm crashed like the waves of the Atlantic, and when he was done, she mopped the sweat from his face with the edge of her silk dressing gown.

"Sleep now, Mr Holmes, you've had a long night," she said. She touched one of the red welts on his chest and he hissed in pain, which only made her chuckle. "You'll feel better in the morning, that I can promise you."

He didn't remember her sliding off of him, but he remembered falling into blackness against the pillow, the smell of her all around him. When he heard the soft clicking of her heels and the slamming door behind her, Sherlock finally allowed his own smile of triumph as he gave up fighting to stay awake.

~pqpqpq~

John woke alone in the cabin and he woke furious. He had done what Sherlock had asked that night, uncovered every scrap of information on Itai El-Baz, and even a bit more on Sarah Smith and what she had done in the few months before she met the Israeli cyber weapons genius.

Once he had done research, John found himself pacing the cabin until he had grown so tired that he could no longer keep his eyes open. He didn't bother to undress, but fell down atop the bed and passed out with fury.

He showered, choosing a shirt in deep green and a pair of trousers that were just a hair too large for his waist, but would do in a pinch. By the time he finished and dressed, Sherlock had returned to the room, and he was a complete mess.

His hair stuck up all over, his eyes were completely bloodshot, his face drawn and weary, and it appeared he hadn't slept a wink. He didn't meet John's eyes as he stepped into the room, closed the door and sat down on the edge of the bed, his head dropping into his hands.

"Successful night, was it?" John bit out from his spot by the window.

"Please, John," Sherlock said in a weary voice. He stood up and began to pull his shirt off, not caring that John was staring at him.

The welts on his chest were angry and red, and John gasped aloud when he saw them. "Sherlock... are you kidding me?"

"John, I'm going to ask you only once to drop it," Sherlock snapped. "This is neither the time or place to go into it."

"Oh it's all quite obvious what you've got yourself into," John snapped. "I knew you wouldn't be totally vanilla, but I had no idea how dark you'd really get."

Sherlock's eyes locked onto John's face but he said nothing.

"Bang all the information out of her, did you? Was there even a point to the research I stayed up all night doing?" John didn't know why he was so bothered by the events from the night before, except to say that he had always thought Sherlock would remain above such things as power through sex. It was honestly something he had counted on Sherlock for.

Sherlock, who had been staring at him the whole time, suddenly crossed the room, grabbed John's face and kissed him. It wasn't a simple kiss either. Sherlock kissed him with fury and tongue, and... and something else.

When John finally pulled away, he felt something stuck to the side of his cheek, something small and rough. He opened his mouth to say something but Sherlock interrupted him.

"You might want to brush your teeth, John. Your breath is extremely foul."

In absolute and complete shock, John hurried out of the room and into the washroom where he slammed the door and locked it. His breath was rapid, feeling near panic, he dug whatever was attached to his cheek out of his mouth and put it in his palm.

It was paper. It was folded paper, to be exact, small but thick. John quickly opened it up to reveal a post-it sized note in Sherlock's tiny scrawl.

_**The entire yacht is bugged, probably including your clothes. There are video cameras everywhere except in the loo and washroom. Forgive me John, I will explain it all as soon as I can.**_

John felt the events hit him like a ton of bricks. Something was going on, and he was forced to stay in the dark. Irene was never going to be completely on their side, ever, and Sherlock had a plan which he couldn't share with John until they were free of her.

Without even needing to consider another option, John crumpled the note and swallowed it. He grabbed his toothbrush and gave his mouth a good scrub, trying desperately to forget what it felt like to snog Sherlock Holmes.

He returned from the washroom to find Sherlock laying on the bed, face down, completely unconscious. Sherlock was still shirtless and John noticed more welts on his back, and what looked like rope burns on his wrists.

John went and found one of the crew members who provided him with a small first aid kit. Sherlock was still lying on his stomach, and John pulled out a bit of cotton and some rubbing alcohol, dabbing the wounds gently.

Sherlock's head shot up, and John held him down with a firm but patient hand. "I don't know what you got yourself into last night, but at least let me clean this up for you."

"Don't bother," Sherlock muttered as he flopped back down. John could tell Sherlock was still slightly out of it, he suspected drugs, because Sherlock winced and groaned a little, but had no energy to fight back.

John dabbed a bit of antiseptic cream on the wounds and gently rubbed it in. "I don't know why you let these things happen to you."

"This is the first time I've ever been beaten by a dominatrix with a riding crop, John," Sherlock muttered into the pillow. "I hardly say I let these things happen to me often. The why is an entirely different matter altogether."

"I realize you want me to drop it, but I'm worried," John said. He finished Sherlock's back and forced him over to he could treat the welts on his front. Sherlock groaned but complied with John, wincing because the welts on the front had broken open a bit more than the ones on his back.

"There are certain things you shouldn't concern yourself with," Sherlock growled as John dabbed the alcohol over the welts. "This being one of them."

John clenched his jaw and said nothing as he dabbed the cream on, and then started putting everything away. "There. Averted a possible infection, as long as you keep them clean and try not to let yourself be... injured... like this again."

Sherlock stared at John with narrow, cold eyes. His lips were pursed, his hands laying at his sides, and for the first time ever, John broke eye contact first. John started to shift away from Sherlock, but the dark haired man's hand reached out quickly and caught John's wrist.

John stopped and stared down at Sherlock who was looking at him again. "Yes?"

Sherlock squeezed John's wrist slightly. His jaw worked like he was about to say something and then he let his fingers slide off. "Good morning, John," was all he managed.

Shaking his head, he decided to head up to the deck since the weather was nicer, hoping that there was some coffee available because on a morning like this morning, he was going to need it.

John was utterly unsurprised to find Irene sitting outside, as it was the first sunny, calm day in nearly three days. She wore a light blue dress, bit frilly for John's taste, but it suited her. She looked well rested and content as she sat on the sofa, tea in her hands and a small spread of food on the table in front of her.

"Morning dear," she said as he approached. She pointed to a silver pot in the center of the table. "Coffee, as I assume you wanted some."

"Yes, thank you," John said as he helped himself to a cup. The food looked delicious, but the events of the morning had robbed him of his appetite.

"Sleep well?"

"Well enough," John said. "You?"

"Mmm like a baby," Irene purred, and winked at John.

"I always hated that phrase," he said as he took a seat near her.

"What phrase?"

"Like a baby. During a family holiday one year, a cousin of mine had just had a baby, and we all had to share a holiday flat together, and the damned thing woke up and screamed every bloody hour. No one in the flat got a wink of proper sleep, and my cousin looked like the walking dead. I asked her that morning if the baby was always like that and she said all babies were for nearly the first year of their life. Every time someone says, 'like a baby' I assume they mean they woke up in hysterics once an hour."

Irene stared at John and then broke out into peals of laughter. "I never thought of it that way, that's quite funny Dr. Watson. I definitely see what he sees in you. Is he sleeping, by the way?"

"Like the dead," John said, trying to keep his tone neutral, "though from the look of him I'd say he slept like a baby last night."

"A naughty baby," Irene answered with a wink. "A very naughty baby."

"That's quite enough of that, if you don't mind," John snapped.

"No need to be jealous, darling. In fact, I have some free time if you'd like a little taste of what I gave your precious husband last night. Of course, I suspect you'd come more willingly than he did. I had to drug the poor fool before he'd give over to me."

John's eyes widened. "You drugged him?"

"In a sense. I have you to thank, to be honest, John. You should set up a better security system on your computer, just as a future warning. I'm not sure our poor Sherlock would like the world to know he was a heroine addict as a teen."

"You gave him heroine?" John shouted, standing up and glaring down at her.

"Just a bit, enough to take the edge off," Irene said passively. "I mean, you didn't say it specifically, but with the addiction and rehab you mentioned coupled with the fact that he carries around opiates, it didn't take much to make a connection. I think he rather enjoyed it, you should have heard him begging."

"For mercy?" John asked sardonically.

"Twice," she said with a wink. "He always doubted me, but believe me when I say, I know what every man likes. Every man."

John's hands were trembling as he stared down at this woman. "It's hardly an accomplishment when you have to drug your men."

"Oh sit down, John," Irene said impatiently, waving her hand at him. "You're hardly intimidating, even if I wasn't someone who could take a punch. Sherlock loved it. The moment he's conscious, ask him. I'm sure he'll tell you exactly how much he wanted every second of it."

"What was the point?" John demanded.

"The point, darling," she said in a rather dangerous tone, "was to bring the odds back into my favor. You don't really understand the impact of what he gave me, especially since what he gave me he has been guarding his entire life."

"His virginity?" John asked.

Irene smiled. "There's no point in crying about it now, Johnny boy. I got what I wanted, and now you boys will get what you want, and by the end of this little journey we're both going to walk away quite pleased with ourselves."

"He's never going to go off with you, if that's what you're hoping," John bit.

Irene suddenly looked a bit sad. It was such a quick flash of that emotion, however, that John wasn't entirely sure he'd really seen it. She smiled at him and shrugged. "Doesn't really matter, in the end. Have some breakfast, dear. He's probably going to be out most of the morning. We'll get down to business once he's awake and had time to clear his head. We'll be arriving in Miami soon enough, and after that..."

"Off to Cabo," John said.

"I do like men who participate so thoroughly in their studies," she said with a wink. She rose, bent down to press her lips to John's cheek and then headed off down the stairs, leaving John on the deck feeling confused, and absolutely, irrevocably trapped.

~pqpqpq~

"As you know," Irene said late that night when Sherlock finally emerged from his day-long slumber, "I relocated to Canada after I fled Britain."

Sherlock, who was sitting on one of the parlor sofas close to John, a cup of coffee in his hands, an untouched plate of roast beef and potatoes on a table near his knee, nodded. His eyes were still bloodshot and he hadn't said more than three words since he'd come into the room and sat.

"I had chosen the name Sarah Smith, but my soon-to-be husband recognized me almost instantly and took me into custody at his compound in Vancouver," she said.

"How did he recognize you?" John asked, glancing over at Sherlock every so often with concern in his eyes. "Why would he recognize you? Had you previously been connected to him or anyone he worked for?"

"No," Irene said with a shrug. "I had, however, been connected to people he was working against. Moriarty, to be exact. He showed me several surveillance photographs he had in his possession of myself and Jim together in London."

"You were with Moriarty?" John asked, his eyes wide.

"Of course she was," Sherlock said, his voice hoarse and soft. "Who do you think rang that madman that afternoon at the pool?"

"That was you?" John asked.

"Of course it was me," Irene said impatiently. "If I hadn't done so, the three of you would be dead, and while that would have taken care of Jim, it would have also eliminated the two of you and that wouldn't have done me any favors, now would it?"

John's mouth snapped shut and he glared at Sherlock for not divulging this information earlier. Sherlock stared at John with a blank expression and then croaked out, "Do continue."

"I explained my position with Moriarty, and explained the follow up events leading to the moment that El-Baz took me hostage, and instead of killing me, he offered me a deal. Information for my life."

"I'm sure you offered him a counter proposal," John said a little more sharply than he had intended.

"I did, and eventually he accepted. I rather liked my husband, you see. As I previously stated, I'm extremely attracted to smart men, and my husband was one of the smartest. He rather appreciated my ability to obtain information without leaving a lot of bloody mess behind, and eventually we entered into a partnership that resulted in a marriage."

"Not very long lasting, was it, though?" John countered.

"Unfortunately not," Irene said. She had previously been pacing, and now she lowered herself into a chair across from the two men and crossed her arms. "That didn't do me any favors, and put me in a rather precarious position. My husband and I, just prior to his death, had moved down to Cabo. He had entered into a partnership with a man named Raphael Baez."

"Who?" John asked.

"To a layman, he's one of the leaders of the Mexican Mafia," Sherlock clarified impatiently. "I take it Baez was interested in this particular item that was locked in your safe."

"I'm embarrassed to say I didn't realize that at the time. I was caught up in a few other things, and didn't make the connection between Baez and Moriarty's organization. Baez had previously worked with Moriarty, I later learned, and fell out of favor. Luckily for him, he was able to escape without any major harm. Baez specializes in nerve agents, and despite the organization being angry with him, they didn't quite want him offed just yet."

"So they kept him under strict surveillance," Sherlock reasoned.

"They tried. Baez had a way of dropping off of the map completely," Irene said.

"Or perhaps under it," Sherlock mused.

"So you noticed," Irene said.

John watched both Sherlock and Irene glance out the window and he made the connection to the submarine. "So to conclude, Baez has your safe, which he cannot crack, and that's who we need to get it back from."

"That's obvious," Sherlock said quickly. "That is of no consequence, and when the time is right we will retrieve this item from the safe. What I want to know is how it works."

"The virus?" Irene asked with a raised brow. "Honestly I only know the basics. It has the ability to crack into any government system and give control to the person wielding it. This flash drive will create a major explosion if in the wrong hands."

Sherlock was staring at her intently. He finished off his coffee and cleared his throat. "They know I'm with you."

"They do," she acquiesced.

"They're hoping I can get into the safe, since they're well aware that no amount of torture will get the information out of you."

"No matter what I give them, I'm dead," Irene said. "With a bit of collateral I'll be able to escape death for a third time, it seems."

"So you're just handing us over in exchange for your life?" John all-but shouted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Your density frightens me sometimes, John. If Irene has a bargaining chip, she may be able to hold them off long enough to get the safe open, and with the three of us combined, there is a higher chance we leave the situation with the contents of the safe and Baez will be taken down."

"Christ," John muttered.

"When we arrive in Miami, we'll head straight over to my compound in Cabo. I expect contact with Baez will likely take a month or so. He's not one to act quickly or rashly. If the two of you can scrape together enough patience to last that long, I think we can all walk away quite successful."

Sherlock stood up suddenly and walked out of the room. Irene stared at John who sat for only a moment before he went straight out after his friend. He found the taller man on the deck, staring out into the black ocean, face unreadable.

John desperately wanted to talk to Sherlock. There was obviously more going on, but knowing that even his clothes were bugged, he couldn't say anything. After a few moments, John reached out and touched Sherlock's hand.

"Are you alright?"

"Absolutely always," Sherlock replied.

"I heard you know... about everything."

"I expect so," Sherlock said. "I'm still not quite right, the drugs are still in my system a bit and I'll likely feel a bit off for a few more days."

John, bravely, reached out and gently touched a welt mark that protruded above Sherlock's collar. Sherlock winced just slightly and pulled away. "I don't understand what happened."

"I don't expect you to," Sherlock said. "I expect you to be disappointed with me, rightly so. I'm only going to ask that you keep your emotions in check until we finish what we've come here for."

John realized Sherlock was right. Sherlock was absolutely not himself, and there was no point in John pressing him for more information, or in letting his emotions take over. Things were going on that were currently beyond his comprehension and he wasn't going to get answers until it was safe, and he had no idea when that was going to be,

Eventually Sherlock retired to the bedroom, and some time later, John did the same. Sherlock was snoring, sleeping fretfully when John climbed into the bed, and though it seemed there was a sea of space between them, Sherlock stilled when John laid down.

The boat finally reached Miami after what seemed like an eternity at sea. They docked and Irene took care of presenting all of the necessary papers when they were asked for them. They made it to the airport in what John thought had to be record time, and soon after, all of their things had been checked in and they were heading to the gate.

Sherlock absolutely insisted on stopping for coffee, and before they made it past the gift shops, a passenger, frantically racing for security, bumped Sherlock and the taller man dumped nearly the entire cup of coffee all down John's front.

"Bugger, that's hot!" John shouted.

Irene chuckled and shook her head. "Gift shop," she said, pointing to a rather large shop packed from end to end with too-bright items of clothing and jewelery. "I'll meet you boys at the gate."

Sherlock shot John a warning look as Irene headed off, and they quickly went to the shop. Without even bothering to check with John about size or preference, Sherlock ripped a pair of cargo shorts and a T-shirt that read Come At Me Bro, and a pair of strapped men's sandals, off the shelf and paid for them.

Sputtering in protest, John was dragged into the loo and shoved into the stall. "Change, we haven't got a lot of time," Sherlock insisted.

Bright red with embarrassment at being nearly fifty and wearing a t-shirt that was clearly meant for some beach goer who belonged to a Fraternity, John slipped the clothes on and stepped out.

Sherlock took one look at John and burst into laughter. "Good lord," he gasped.

"If you'd given me a moment to look at the other items," John complained.

"No time," Sherlock said. He quickly scooped up John's clothes, socks and shoes and tipped them into the bin. With that, he grabbed John's arm and tugged him out of the bathroom. "Quickly," he said as they milled through the passengers heading through security.

"What the hell is going on?" John demanded.

"You've been momentarily debugged, and Irene knows it," Sherlock said.

"What if she's got one on you?" John asked.

"She hasn't," Sherlock said. "I suspect you've come to the conclusion that there is far more going on than she's let us know."

"Yes," John said quickly. The queue was moving faster than he had hoped and they were nearly to the security scanner.

"I've got some of it worked out, but it's going to take me time to understand it all. It's going to get ugly, John, and the only thing I've got on my side is that she thinks she's won."

"Won what?" John asked. He emptied his pockets into a little dish and moved forward.

"Me," Sherlock said. "She believes that she's won over my affections through sexual intercourse, and it's important that she continues to believe that. If she, for a second, thinks that she doesn't have the pull over me that she believes she has, our lives our in danger."

"Did you um... you know..."

"Enjoy it?" Sherlock asked with a smirk.

"Well you were drugged so I wasn't sure how much you remembered," John stammered. He wasn't even really sure why he was asking, and he was embarrassed.

"She's very skilled," Sherlock said. "The experience wasn't entirely unpleasant, despite the pain afterward. It's definitely answered some questions, though if you want a real idea you might want to try it out yourself."

"Er, no. Thanks." John stammered. He paused a moment and then said, "Sherlock that er... kiss... from before..."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John and crossed his arms. They had gone through security and John was now hastily stuffing his things back into the pockets of the cargo shorts.

"Was that er... necessary? For the note? Was it actually necessary?"

Sherlock smirked and merely said, "Come along, John, Irene's just at the end there."

John tried to shake off his red face as they approached Irene who was looking at John's clothes with an expression of vague amusement. "As much as I do enjoy watching a man struggle with discomfort, this is a bit much."

"Was all they had in that ruddy shop," John muttered, tugging at the shirt a bit.

"There will be plenty of shops for you to rectify your wardrobe situation when we arrive in Mexico," Irene said.

John slept most of the flight and felt quite groggy when they arrived in Cabo. It was hotter than he had expected, and oddly he appreciated the shorts and t-shirt, as embarrassing as they were. Sherlock's brow was beading with sweat, and he tugged repeatedly on his collar as the cab took them to the rather large compound.

Cabo was not what John expected. He had done some traveling, but not this far west, and he had sort of expected something out of an old west setting with mustached Mexicans in sombreros and ponchos.

What he found were palm trees, sandy beaches and high humidity. The people wore light linen clothing, hair worn up or short. The women walked around in large sun hats, and the men looked as though they had just come from golfing.

John chuckled at himself for having been so taken by a stereotype, and he vowed to try and be a little more culturally accurate, should they ever travel like this again.

The compound itself was beautiful. Guarded by high, yellow painted walls, the house was almost as large as Lady Holmes' estate. The grounds were lush and green with tropical plants lining every corner. Several cars were parked near the front of the house, all old, antique and in perfect condition.

"My husband was a bit of an enthusiast," Irene commented as she caught John eying the automobiles. "He also loved horses, and we have a rather large stable out back."

She led the way inside, and John wasn't surprised to find the home decorated with Mexican artwork and 1800's period style furniture. There was a set of stairs immediately to their left as they stepped in the front door, and down a hall John could see straight back into the garden where a large fountain stood amongst the lush green would-be rainforest.

A couple of the household servants greeted Irene with enthusiasm, and she spoke to them in rapid, fluent Spanish. The pair were escorted upstairs where they were given separate but adjoining bedrooms.

The rooms were large, each with their own bathroom, and the windows overlooked the grounds which were even more beautiful from that height. John could see the beach just beyond the walls of the compound, and he briefly considered abandoning the house to put his toes in the sea.

"I hope the accommodations suit," Irene said from John's doorway.

John turned and smiled at her. "This place is quite lovely. I see the appeal."

"It will be a difficult place to leave, that I assure you." She fell quiet a moment and then said, "I took the liberty of sending someone out for more appropriate attire. I borrowed your measurements from the things Sherlock had packed for you. I hope you don't mind."

"No, thank you," John said.

"Feel free to roam around all you want, but do remember we are being watched. I don't expect Baez to bother making his move for quite some time, but it's best to remain cautious at all times."

"Understood," John said.

And then it all sort of got a bit... dull. Even for John, the lack of action they reached was almost maddening. The boys, being rather British and pasty, didn't do well in the sun. John managed to drag Sherlock to the beach one afternoon, just for a stroll. Sherlock came back red as a lobster, and spent the next three days cursing, his skin peeling and stinging.

John, while he chuckled about the entire experience, took to having his walks on the beach alone at night, and they spent their days holed up in the compound, Sherlock trying to hack into every sect of Irene's late husband's computer system, and John writing in the gardens, napping in a hammock, eating fresh fruit and vegetables, and feeling rather lazy.

John could see the appeal of this place, and even Irene's temptation to separate herself from the radical, grey and rainy world she came from. Irene, herself, spent a lot of time away from the boys. The few times she did appear, she seemed to be a bit more peaky, tired and quiet.

She smiled a lot, and her innuendos were no less sharp or poignant, but there was something going on that John couldn't quite put his finger on yet. Sherlock seemed absolutely unconcerned with the state of her, utterly consumed with trying to figure out the exact schematics of El-Baz's virus, and what exactly it did.

One night, John headed out for his walk, and as he reached the back gate to the path that led to the beach, he found Sherlock waiting there for him. Sherlock was wearing black linen trousers rolled his to his knees and a light cotton, button up shirt. John couldn't see him very clearly in the dark, but caught a hint of a smirk as they stepped barefoot onto the sand and headed towards the water.

"You seem content here," Sherlock said as the waves splashed their feet. Though it was winter, and the water was colder than normal, it was still balmy and tolerable, even in the late hours of the evening.

"It's quite lovely, for a holiday spot, but..."

"It's not home," Sherlock said.

"You're not one to be sentimental," John pointed out. "Don't tell me the great Sherlock Holmes is homesick."

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock said. "This place is acceptable, and the challenge before me is something I'm rather enjoying. Being trapped in the life of a dead man was starting to weigh on me, John, and with a mystery laid out before me, the little details just waiting to be picked up, I'm quite pleased."

"Have you found anything out?" John asked.

Sherlock, walking with his arms clasped behind his back, smirked but didn't respond. "Have you noticed anything odd about Irene lately?"

"Are you having me on?" John admonished.

Sherlock quirked a brow. "What do you mean?"

"I've been telling you she's been off for the last week now," John declared, shaking his head. "Honestly, you talk to me when I'm not even there, but when I'm in the room and talking directly at your face, you don't hear me."

"She's ill, I believe," Sherlock said with a shrug.

"It might be more than that," John said. "We've been here about a month now, and while she's herself she hasn't... you know... attempted with you."

"Have you been listening, John?" Sherlock asked with a small smile.

"No," John said quietly. "I just, I've not been sleeping as well as I'd hoped."

Sherlock nodded, pursing his lips, saying nothing. They continued to walk down the beach until they reached a rocky area. Sherlock turned and stared up at the clear sky. "It's about to get quite complicated, John."

"How so?" John asked.

"We're being followed," Sherlock said in a low tone. "They also know that I know they're there. They aren't going to make their move right now, but I suggest we return to the compound. I have a few things to think on."

John, feeling a sudden rush of panic, followed Sherlock back to the house, a much swifter pace than their previously leisurely stroll. Sherlock went straight into his room and while John heard the instant sounds of the violin, fast and fierce, John went to check on Irene. She wasn't in her room, and he popped his head into her bathroom but found nothing. He was about to back out when he found something sitting on top of the bin.

His face grew warm and without hesitating, he snatched it up. He knew what it was before he really saw it, and knew what would be on it before he turned it over to show two pink lines across a white background.

Irene was pregnant, and there was only one person who could be responsible for this. John dropped the white stick back into the bin and turned to leave the bathroom. He heard Sherlock shouting something and then the hard footfalls on the stairs.

John moved to follow Sherlock but before he could take more than a few steps, something sharp jabbed into his arm. He wavered, fighting the drug, but as he started to sink down, something hit him in the back of the head and his world went black.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N- Well folks, this is the end. I feel like it may have been a bit rushed, and I do need to work on my actions skills a bit, but RL deadlines are screaming my name. Sigh. I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing. I should be back once I finish my book, to play with Sherlock and Watson again. Any questions feel free to contact me and as always, enjoy!**

He knew they were being followed as they set foot into the sand for the leisurely stroll. He didn't tell John right away, he didn't want to take away this moment, because Sherlock was certain that this would be likely the last time John would see this beach.

It wouldn't be the last time John saw a beach, John wasn't going to die. In Sherlock's world, John couldn't die. There wasn't room for such an event, and that was simple fact. No, it didn't have anything to do with death, but the fact that Sherlock had figured things out.

The hours he'd spent hacking into the system of The Woman's late husband had finally culminated in success, and Sherlock had worked most of it out. He hadn't worked out what was wrong with The Woman. She was ill, that much was certain, perhaps dying, even, but it was of little consequence to Sherlock now.

He had a mission, he knew that mission, and what he needed to do was complete it and get himself and John out alive, and relatively unharmed. That last bit was the most complicated part of the plan. On the beach, while John was talking, Sherlock heard the striking of a match, smelled the faint fragrance of cigar smoke. It was nearly time.

The pair did their best to hurry back without looking overly suspicious, though Sherlock felt it hardly mattered. Someone was already inside the house, several someones judging by the dimmed lights in the downstairs parlor, by the scuff marks on the floor just inside the door, and the smells of cologne and cigar wafting through the open door.

John noticed none of that, though he was on alert and ultimately concerned for The Woman. Sherlock wanted to draw out the people in the house, so as John went off to find the house's other occupant, Sherlock picked up his violin and began to play.

He heard the cocking of a gun, and he dropped the instrument a bit harder than intended, on a table. He dashed out of the study door and headed down the stairs. There had been someone upstairs with them, of that he was certain. "Stay on your guard, John!" Sherlock called as his feet hit the landing.

There was a lone shoe, a polished, black stiletto, kicked to the side, having come to rest under a small table against the wall. There were marks on the floor where someone had been dragged. The Woman, obviously, had been taken.

"Gun, I need a gun," Sherlock whispered. He looked again at the shoe, and then opened the small drawer on the table. He felt around until he found a small button at the top. A small compartment popped open and a gun lay, loaded and ready.

Sherlock tucked it into the back of his trousers and moved forward. The parlor was full of smoke, drink and tall men with olive skin and black hair. There was one, a bit fatter than the rest, shorter with gold rings on each hand, his blue shirt open just enough at the collar to reveal a cross on a chain.

"Mr Holmes," crowed the man, his teeth white and straight save for a canine that stuck out just slightly more than the rest.

"Raphael Baez," Sherlock said, giving a slight bow in greeting.

The other four men in the room, generic, matching, guns pointing at him, stood stiff and on guard, but for the moment, not a threat.

"I've been so looking forward to this meeting," he said. His English was perfect, accent light and practiced.

"As have I, since I noticed you following us at sea," Sherlock said.

Baez chuckled and shook his head. "I have heard you were the best, Mr Holmes. This is why I was so pleased when darling Sarah, or as you call her, Irene, chose to contact you when her safe went missing."

"It's still locked, I presume?" Sherlock asked.

"All I require is a code," Baez said. "A code and I will have the safe opened and we can all go on our way."

"You do realize it requires more than a code, do you not?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrow quirked.

Baez's face darkened and he crossed his arms. "What do you mean?"

"The late El-Baz wasn't the most trusting man, and he set certain security measures on the safe that would require more than just a code to open it. He trusted himself, above all, and he trusted someone else as well."

"His wife?" Baez said, his smile returning.

"No," Sherlock said. "He trusted the man his wife feared the most. Me." Sherlock ended the sentence with a smile, spreading his arms out in surrender. "You've likely already figured out his pass code, Mr Baez, but the safe will not open with out the finger imprints of either El-Baz or myself. This, you see, is why Sarah Smith needed me."

"Irene Adler is constantly giving us reason to eliminate her, Mr Holmes," Baez growled.

"I imagine so," Sherlock acquiesced, "however she's also giving you reasons why you cannot do just that."

"I'm going to ask you to come with us," Baez said, the henchmen now raising their guns and cocking them back.

"And if I refuse?" Sherlock asked a little petulantly, knowing full well he'd go, but he wanted to see their hand first. "You've done your research on me, you should know perfectly well I'm not afraid of being shot."

"This is true, Mr Holmes, you don't fear death. But you do fear his," Baez said. He turned the screen of his mobile around to show John lying on a stone floor, shaking in what appeared to be a seizure of some sort.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he took a step back. "Drugged?"

"I don't know if your woman bothered to explain to you that I specialized in nerve agents," Baez said, his grin widener. "In fact, I was rather sought after by your infamous Jim Moriarty on several occasions. He and I didn't always, how do you say it, see eye to eye? His organization isn't exactly on my side, Mr Holmes, and with very good reason."

"I see," Sherlock said.

"What I've given your friend isn't fatal... in the dose I've injected. That is something that could be quickly remedied. The longer you delay..." Baez trailed off and showed the phone to Sherlock again, where a man was giving John another jab. There was no sound but Sherlock didn't need to hear the screams coming from John's wide, contorted mouth as he writhed on the floor. "I suggest you cooperate, and quickly."

Sherlock didn't need telling twice. He didn't fight the man who blindfolded and disarmed him. He didn't complain when they roughly dragged him to a large, tall vehicle and sped off. He kept quite, listening to the sounds around him, feeling the turns and shifts, the subtle slowing and accelerating of the car. He memorized every smell, every movement, and when they arrived, Sherlock was led inside.

The floors were polished hardwood, he could tell by the way his steps fell, and the smells told him that this was more than just a home, however people did live here. He smelled a previously prepared meal, and heard the sounds of a fountain.

He was led down an impossibly long hallway to a room, and once the door was shut, the blindfold was removed. Sherlock blinked, but the room was so dim he didn't need to adjust much. It looked a bit like an office, really, the walls brown and lined with shelves and pictures of Baez with his wife and teenaged daughter.

There was a large desk, a computer with four monitors that were showing different systems that Sherlock didn't immediately recognize. Two of the four henchmen were in the room, one of them holding a gun to Sherlock, the other holding a gun to Irene, who was blindfolded, and on her knees.

"Now, Mr Holmes, if you don't mind..." Baez said, and pointed to a rather small, delicate looking safe sitting on a table.

Sherlock flexed his fingers and studied the keypad. He could see the subtle grooves of the fingerprint censors behind the rubber, and he looked up at Baez. "I don't know the code."

Baez frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The fingerprint censors were easy enough to figure out, but unfortunately Mr El-Baz was a bit of a recluse. His computer passwords were random and took me weeks to break in. You, however, may know the code but it's not that simple, Mr Baez."

"Explain," Baez said, his voice low and angry.

"The incorrect code will do nothing, the right code will open the safe, and the wrong code will detonate explosives and we will all be dead," Sherlock said simply.

Baez marched over to Sherlock and pulled out his phone, shoving it in Sherlock's face. "One more injection and your friend is dead. This threat worked before, I believe, let's see how clever you can be now."

Sherlock watched with horror as a man on the screen filled another syringe with fluid and approached John. He squeezed his eyes, thinking, begging his mind not to fail him, not this one time when it mattered. He was damned, his love for John damned him every time.

And then, just before the needle touched John's arm, Sherlock noticed it. The faint tapping on cloth, a tapping that he recognized. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Irene. Blindfolded with a gun to the back of her head, her index finger was tapping on the edge of her dress.

"Wait!" Sherlock cried.

Baez stayed the man with the needle and looked at Sherlock. "You have one chance, Mr Holmes. I would hate to kill your friend, I really would. Enter the code."

Sherlock listened for a break in her code, and then she began again. His fingers trembled as he touched the keypad, which lit up the moment it scanned his prints. "Zero, five, one, three, two, zero one, one," he said.

It was a date, obviously, a date that he couldn't find any significance to, but the safe beeped once, twice, and then a third time before the click. It was unlocked. Sherlock stared at Baez as he slowly brushed the door to the safe open with his left hand.

With his right, he reached in, swooped up the gun and the small flash drive that sat atop piles of papers. He had the gun pointed at Baez, on his feet, ready to fire and run.

"If you do, your friend dies," Baez warned. "Give me what I want, Mr Holmes. I will even allow you to stay armed, if that gives you some measure of comfort."

Sherlock hesitated before handing over the flash drive, backing up a few steps to the door. The henchman still had a gun on Sherlock, but Sherlock wasn't concerned about this man. He could kill this man before he could make a move if he wished, but this man's life or death meant nothing to Sherlock.

With icy, narrow eyes, Sherlock watched as Baez entered the flash drive into his computer. The smallest screen popped up that read; Downloading. A counter counting back from five minutes. Sherlock knew what Baez didn't know, and he knew he needed to run.

"You're going to kill me anyway," Sherlock said, "so why not make it even sport. Let me find my friend and go."

"Your lives mean nothing to me now," Baez said with a chuckle. "When I want you dead, I'll know where to find you, Mr Holmes. For now, go. As a thank you, for all your help."

Sherlock hesitated and looked at Irene, who was still on her knees, her brow sweating just a bit.

"No, she's mine," Baez said. "I'm afraid it's your friend John, or no one, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock didn't hesitate. Nothing in the world could have made him hesitate, not when it came to John. Running out into the main hall, Sherlock closed his eyes and saw the room John was in. He looked around and it took him less than eight seconds to find the right door, burst in, shoot the man with the needle and rush to John's side.

~pqpqpqpq~

John was laying on the floor, his body trembling. He knew nothing but pain, then. Pain and blackness. The blow to the head had knocked him out, and when he came to, he was on a cold floor, every single nerve ending in his body on fire. He heard a violent buzzing in his ears, and above that he heard people in the room with him, but his mind could process nothing but the pain.

His hands were bound, his eyes were open but he couldn't see. He could feel liquid running down the back of his neck and out of his nose. Someone kicked him, but he had no voice to cry out. Someone was speaking, mechanically sounding as though they were speaking through a phone. Another sting of the needle and the pain roared to life.

John tried to cry out, to scream, to beg, but only air escaped. He writhed, unable to stop the trembling, the floor beneath him hard and unforgiving. Someone laughed, kicking him again, hitting him in the spine. He heard the a crack and somewhere in his brain he knew it was just a rib. Just a rib.

John couldn't be sure how long he lay there. He thought he should have lost consciousness by now, from the pain, but he didn't. He thought it would subside by now, but the agony continued, burning, pulsing through his veins.

There was a loud bang, a gunshot, and John winced from the noise. He was terrified, begging, he just wanted it to stop. He heard a thud and he tried to struggle but his entire body was stiff, unyielding. He couldn't stop the person from touching him again.

He writhed and managed to croak out, "P-please... no. S-stop. P-please."

Cold hands, smooth, thin, cold hands touched him. Freeing his hands, touching his face, sitting him up. He heard his name whispered, soothing him. "John. John can you hear me?"

"S-sherlock?" John stuttered. It was agony, trying to make his voice, any muscle at all, work.

"You've been given a nerve agent."

"C-can't s-see," he managed.

"Damn," Sherlock wore. His cold hands were still on the sides of John's face, turning his head from one direction to another. "John, I need you to listen to me, we have five minutes to get out of this compound. Less, in fact, because it took me about forty five seconds to kill that man and untie you. I don't care what strength you have to draw on, I need you to run. Can you do this for me, John? Can you run?"

John cried out against the pain as Sherlock lifted him to his feet. He was certain he would not be able to move, certain he would just die here, and for a moment that sounded alright, because he just wanted the burning to stop. Then, in his darkness, a hand curled around his, a supporting arm around his waist, and somehow, somewhere, John found strength to put one foot in front of the other.

His entire body seized against the pain, but he made it. They were running, and though he couldn't see where, and though he wanted to pass out from the agony, they ran. They got to the gate, the squeak of iron giving it away, John stopped.

"Irene.. w-where?" he stammered.

"No time," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry, John, but I had to make a choice, and really, there never was one to make. Hurry, we have to run."

"No," John said, and he froze. Sherlock tugged him, but John was absolutely unmoving. "C-can't... must... Irene. Can't go," he stuttered.

"John, listen to me!" Sherlock said, "If I have to bloody well lift you and carry you out, I will, so help me God, but you will regret it."

"P-p-pregnan-nt," John stammered. He bit down on what little control he had over his muscles and voice. "She's... yours. I won't... I won't go. You can't let... h-her die, Sherlock!"

Sherlock was frozen, and though John couldn't see him, he knew. He knew the look on Sherlock's face. "I have to make the sacrifice, John."

John stood his ground. "I won't."

Suddenly, surprising John almost violently, Sherlock laughed. "Oh," he said and his hand left John's arm. "Oh that woman, oh that clever, horrible woman. Oh!"

"What?" John demanded.

"She knew I'd let her die, even if I knew. She knew I'd let her, but she knew you, too, John. She knew you wouldn't. My god, and here we are and we have..." Sherlock checked his watch, "bloody two minutes and thirty seconds before this entire place is engulfed in flames."

"B-better... hurry," John gasped.

Sherlock glared at his friend, grabbed his gun and he ran, faster than he ever had. He had a plan, a fast plan, a plan that he would later worship his own mind for being so clever and so quick for. He'd seen the girl in the photos, and he'd seen the girl as they ran out the front door.

She was a pretty girl, about fifteen, on her mobile, arguing in rapid Spanish. She didn't see Sherlock approach, and within seconds her mobile was on the ground, a gun to her head, and they stood in the study where Baez stared at Sherlock in absolute horror.

"I want her," Sherlock said, nodding to Irene who hadn't moved. He saw the timer, two minutes exactly. "I want her right now."

Baez, just like Sherlock, didn't hesitate. He nodded and the henchman gave Irene over to Sherlock. Before Sherlock gave the girl up, he whispered in her ear, "If you want to save yourself from all of this, you have less than two minutes to run."

Irene was suddenly on his arm, and they were running. She was tugging at her blindfold, and by the time they made it to John, to the gate, she was free of her bindings, and Sherlock had John once again.

They had made it far enough when the explosion hit. It rocked them off of their feet, the heat rushing over them, but not enough to burn them. John felt Sherlock's protective arm over him, shielding him, keeping him away from debris as pieces of house and land fell from the sky.

"Well done, Mr Holmes," Irene purred.

"You don't have me to thank for this," Sherlock snapped. He helped John to his feet, holding him protectively close.

"I know," Irene said. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to John's cheek. "I knew I could count on you, Doctor."

John was fighting to stay conscious. His knees buckled and Sherlock eased him to the ground. He heard Irene and Sherlock talking, perhaps fighting, but it ceased to matter. He was losing his grip, and he was afraid again, but his black world was growing blacker and he was almost gone.

When John woke, it felt as though he'd slept for years. His eyes blinked open and though he still couldn't see much, he could see light. Fuzzy, smears of color floated before his face, and he no longer hurt, though his muscles ached.

He groaned and sat up, and before he could say a word, a cool hand was pressing hot tea into his. John took a sip, and let out a sigh. "Thank you," he croaked.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked.

John cleared his throat and took another drink. "Better, at least."

"Can you see?"

"Still quite blind, actually," John said, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand, "but it's coming back slowly. What the hell happened?"

"Quite a bit," Sherlock said. He sat down next to John and started to poke and prod him, shining a bright light into his eyes at the end, and then giving a great sigh. "I'm not sure what they injected you with, but I managed to nick a small medical kit from the house while I collected our things, and I've taken a few vials of your blood. I'll use the lab back home to study it and see what I can find."

"Brilliant," John groaned. He pushed himself back until he was resting against a wall, and he laid his head back. "So we lost the flash drive, then? In the blast?"

Sherlock smiled smugly, aware John couldn't see it, and he pressed a tiny piece of plastic and microchip into John's open palm. "Yes we did lose the flash drive, John."

John felt over the tiny thing and frowned. "What is it?"

"A micro card," Sherlock said. "The flash drive was a trigger to a bomb, John. The real virus is here, and a virus is only part of it." His voice was bursting with glee, with triumph, as he plucked the micro card from John's hand. "Irene's late husband was paranoid, and rightly so. He had many partners, and what those partners didn't know was that El-Baz had planted bombs all over their homes. No one, not even Irene knew about this micro card, John. Not even Irene knew that the flash drive was merely the trigger for the bomb, blowing up any home wired to his network that tried to download this virus."

"Where did it come from?"

"It was stuck to the door of the safe, actually, with a small bit of tape. No one noticed that I'd scraped it off with my left hand, they were all too concerned what my right was doing with the flash drive. Baez, as brilliant as he could be, had a very small mind. If it had been me, I wouldn't have let me just stroll out. He was over confident, just like Moriarty, that something simple could take me down."

"So... what does that mean?" John asked.

"It means we've won!" Sherlock shouted, and grabbed John, kissing his cheek. "This isn't just a virus, John, this is a weapon. This is the weapon! This miniature piece of plastic and microchip will hack the entire collective communication systems linking the Moriarty enterprises. It scrambles communication and shuts them down. It automatically uploads their entire system into their respective government databases, giving the government not only control over it, but a spotlight to their location. This man, this El-Baz was a bloody genius, John. He left behind the most valuable thing, and put it right in the palm of my hand."

John was grinning now, shaking his head, but grinning. "How do you do it? Honestly, how the hell do you pull this off every time? It's disgusting, Sherlock. It's absolutely vulgar."

Sherlock stood up, stretched his arms and then winked. "Oh yes John, I know."

It took John two days to recover his sight enough to board a plane back to London. Sherlock, having a penchant for the dramatic, decided he would not tell anyone about his arrival, choosing instead to stroll into Lestrade's office and present him with the micro card.

While John disagreed with this ridiculous idea, he couldn't argue, and he sat on the plane next to his friend, staring at his mobile, wondering if they were going to get shot before they could show Lestrade exactly what they had procured.

A slight delay in the plane caused everyone to grow a bit cross, and while everyone, including Sherlock, was complaining about the delay, John's mobile suddenly beeped. It was an email, from Mycroft. It contained a single picture of the book, Treasure Island, from the bookcase, and the text reading, "Do tell my brother if he wished to run off and become a pirate, he could have just told everyone and saved the theatrics for the theatre."

John tapped Sherlock and showed him the phone. Sherlock read it and rolled his eyes. "He spoils everything," Sherlock grumbled. "No doubt he's already been on the line to Lestrade, giving me away. Tell him to quit sniveling about not being able to figure me out sooner and have a piece of cake."

John, who chose not to say that at all to Mycroft Holmes, instead texted back their flight number and arrival time before turning off the mobile and choosing to sleep until they arrived back home.

The flight was uneventful, blessedly shorter than the boat trip, and the arrival quiet. A car was waiting for them, though Mycroft was nowhere to be found. John suspected that Mycroft would wait until his emotions were in check before confronting his brother, and John also sincerely hoped he was not present for that confrontation.

The drive to Lestrade's office seemed to take longer than normal, which seemed to annoy Sherlock more than anything. John reached over, putting his hand on Sherlock's twitching wrist, and he smiled at his friend.

Sherlock took a deep breath and then looked away. "Is she really you know... with child?"

John nodded. "The symptoms matched up to the positive pregnancy test I found next to her toilet. What are you going to do about it?"

"Absolutely nothing," Sherlock said. "I wouldn't have gone back for her if you hadn't made me."

"Does it matter to you that she's having your baby?"

"Should it?" Sherlock asked. "John, do you think I'd make a decent parent? Do you think that I would benefit any child from attempting to parent it at all?"

"You might do a better job than Irene," John said. "I might, in fact, be a better mum than her."

"Do you want children?" Sherlock asked.

John laughed. "I thought so, once. I thought that maybe meeting a woman and settling down and having a family would be nice."

"So what happened?"

John smiled at Sherlock and took his hand away. "I met you."

Sherlock grinned back and turned his attention to the window. Lestrade's office was coming into focus, and it was almost time. "The code to the safe, it was the date of a baby she'd lost," Sherlock said as the car slowly came to a halt.

"Sorry?" John asked.

"She tapped it out in Morse code. I asked her later. She and her husband conceived, but she miscarried two months in. The date for the safe would have been her dead baby's birth date."

"What does that mean?" John asked.

Sherlock opened the door and held it for John. "I don't know. Perhaps that she's more sentimental than I thought her capable. And that might make her more dangerous."

"Did she know about the micro card? Did you tell her?" John opened the office door for Sherlock and they both walked in. They ignored the gasps, the pointed stares, people calling after them as they marched to Lestrade's office with their heads held high.

"No, but she'll know soon enough. I doubt she'll care. She's still in danger, Baez wasn't working completely alone and they'll come after her."

"Us as well," John said as he paused at Lestrade's closed door.

Sherlock smiled and held up the micro card. "True, but after this, they might think twice."

~pqpqpqpq~

"Sherlock Holmes, back in action. Returning from the dead like a comic book super hero, Sherlock Holmes and his partner John Watson have done it again. The once-fraud returned from an apparent trip abroad after faking his own death, stealing a boat and obtaining sensitive information in regards to one of the most dangerous, and largest criminal organizations in the world. Today, all over the globe, citizens watched the news as one by one, governments received necessary information and control over crime lords who have been secretly working with terrorists and terrorizing their homelands. The arrests being made are one for the books, and we have Sherlock Holmes to thank. Here now is Detective Inspector Lestrade with his official statement."

Lestrade stood at the podium, looking frazzled, his hair a bit of a mess, his eyes weary, but bright. He cleared his throat and glanced over at Sherlock and John who stood by quietly, but smugly, and rightly so. "To be honest, I never thought I'd be standing here again thanking Sherlock Holmes for his work. It's hard to imagine, and hard to admit that two men could do what governments all across the world, for decades, have been trying to do. With one bit of information, we were able to pinpoint people we had been trying to take down since before I took position here. Not only did we receive sensitive locations and names of persons we didn't realize had any connections to the organization, but we were also given technology which allowed us to control the very databases and obtain the necessary information to make these charges stick."

Sherlock switched off the telly in the middle of the speech. John glared at him, but Sherlock flopped down on the sofa and kicked his feet up on the table. "I've had enough of that ponce for one day."

"He did apologize, Sherlock. He thanked you, gave you a medal and everything," John said.

Sherlock looked over at the medal, which now contained three bullet holes after he'd used it for target practice. "Helpful, that." One of the kittens that Molly had returned to them earlier that day hopped up on Sherlock's chest for a cuddle, which the curly haired man obliged.

John chuckled and shook his head. "That was exciting, wasn't it?"

"It was quite dull, to be frank, though the chase... you can't beat the chase, John."

John fell quiet a moment, looking at his friend, watching Sherlock's mouth play into a small smirk as he clearly remembered some of the events, some of his absolute cleverness and wit. "I love you, Sherlock. I think we need to be clear on that."

Sherlock froze, and very slowly, sat up. "What?"

John held up a hand. "Don't get me wrong, I'm still not gay. I've not decided that I think you and I should get naked and gobble each other off or anything. Not really interested in taking it up the arse, just so you know."

"Right er..." Sherlock said, possibly for the first time in his life at an honest loss for words.

"But I do love you. It's... it's complicated, it's quite stupid, really, and I don't like it, but there it is. When I thought, for those weeks you were you know, dead, that I had to live a day without you, I realized I couldn't do it. I could pretend to live. I could go through the motions of life, drinking tea, talking to neighbors, shopping, sleeping. I could do all of those things, but I had ceased to be. I had simply stopped. It took me quite some time to realize that it was because I did, in fact, love you."

"Why are you telling me this, John?" Sherlock asked, his tone unreadable.

"Because it's important you know," John said. "If I mean as much to you as everyone says I do, it's important you know this. It's important you know that it matters to me if you live or die. It's important you know that as much as you'll risk yourself, I'll risk myself. This is it for me, Sherlock. This mad life we lead," he said, waving his arm around the room. "My blog, the cases, your ruddy violin and your rubbish experiments in the kitchen. Even the body parts in the fridge and the piss poor way you make tea, or forget to bring home milk. The way you talk to me, even when I'm out, and even when you let women tie you up and beat you with riding crops... I love you. It's mad, it's stupid, but it's our life, and it's important you remember that it's ours. Not yours. Not mine. Ours."

Sherlock, who had sat forward to absorb every single word John was saying, sat back. He stared at John but it became clear that he wasn't going to say anything. He cleared his throat, opened his mouth, closed it, and then shrugged.

"I don't need you to say it back," John said. "I know you do too, and I don't need you to say it. All I'm asking for, Sherlock, is for you to remember. Please. Please just remember."

Sherlock crossed his arms, hesitated a moment and then said, "Of course. I'll... of course I'll remember John. I'm sorry I ever forgot, even for a moment."

"Thank you," John said smartly, and then grabbed the remote and turned back on the telly, this time switching to one of the ridiculous chat shows that Sherlock loved to argue with.

John wasn't watching Sherlock, but he didn't need to be watching him to see the quiet, small smile playing across his face. John didn't need to see the smile, or hear I love you, too, because John Watson knew.


End file.
